


The Penis of Eames

by kedgeree



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Archaeology, Crack Treated Seriously, Giant Stone Penis, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-27 12:49:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 36,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6285133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kedgeree/pseuds/kedgeree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is an archaeologist. Eames is the spirit of a giant 500-year-old stone penis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dominick Cobb was never going to come to see the Penis.

Arthur put his hands on his hips, closed his eyes, and sighed. The breeze off the Indian Ocean still carried the smell of last night's rain and eased the heat just enough to keep Arthur's thin cotton shirt from sticking to his back. The equatorial sun was a tangerine glow through Arthur's eyelids, like the bright bulb inside an interrogator's chamber. And Arthur didn't have any answers. Well, except for the truth. But he couldn't tell someone like legendary archaeologist, historian, educator, and all around _god_ Dominick Cobb, most-published author in the fucking _Journal of Archaeological Science_ , _World Archaeology_ , and the _American Journal of Archaeology_ , about how Arthur had _really_ found the Penis. He couldn't tell him about the dreams.

But Dominick Cobb _had_ to come. This was Arthur's chance to make a name for himself. This wasn't just any old giant penis. This was the _Penis of Eames_. And _Arthur_ had found it.

Now all that was left was to retcon the archaeological find of the century. No problem.

"Arthur! Good news!"

Arthur turned. His Field Director's dark hair was orange with dust and the red kerchief around her neck was soaked with sweat. She was smiling triumphantly. "Look," she said, flinging an arm in the direction of the cliff face behind her. "We've finished uncovering the left testicle!"

"Oh." Arthur nodded approval. "Well done, Ari. That is good news."

"Yeah, the rain actually helped, but I haven't told you the best part!"

"What's that?"

Ariadne cupped her hands in front of her and then tilted them. "The left is lower than the right!"

"That's interesting. What are the measurements?"

"Interesting? Arthur, it's _awesome_."

"Why is it _awesome_?"

"Don't you think it's, I don't know, funny? Like real balls!"

Arthur frowned thoughtfully. "It does indicate a degree of attention to anatomical detail, assuming they are in fact an accurate reproduction of Mr. Eames's testicles. Or it could simply be a miscalculation on the part of the builders. The measurements might help us make that determination."

"How? When we compare them to the plaster cast of the real Eames's junk?"

"Ariadne, you don't know how much I wish such a thing existed."

"I'm sure," Ariadne smirked.

Arthur narrowed his eyes at her.

She snickered, unrepentant. "Well, I thought it was cute one was lower than the other."

"Terrific. I'll let the _American Journal of Archaeology_ know that the left testicle of the Penis of Eames is awesome, funny, and cute."

"Oh, Arthur, must you take the fun out of everything?" Ariadne rolled her eyes. "They're already taking the measurements, okay?"

"Data is fun," Arthur said primly.

"Wait, I just realized…you _are_ a guy, so I suppose you _would_ find measuring a penis fun."

Arthur lifted an eyebrow. "You just realized I'm a guy?"

"No, no, I realized that right away. You wear very tight pants, Arthur." Ariadne was grinning broadly now. "I just didn't realize you were such a typical guy."

"Which proves how little you know. I'm atypical. I'm measuring a _testicle_."

" _I'm_ measuring a testicle."

Arthur put a hand over his eyes and squinted at the base of the cliff, where khaki-clad workers milled around the twin bulges of Eames's testicles like ants around a pair of mangoes abandoned on a picnic blanket. "Who _is_ actually measuring the testicle? Not Nash?"

"No, not Nash." Ariadne rubbed the back of her wrist across her nose, sweat smearing dust into a red-brown streak. "He's got his crew up top."

Arthur's gaze shifted up. "What's he doing there? We aren't scheduled to excavate the glans yet."

"Maybe he's marking it off? I don't know. He's _your_ boyfriend." She shot him a look that made it clear what she thought of Nash.

Arthur scowled, glancing around quickly to make sure no one had walked up within hearing distance. "He's not my _boyfriend_. And he reports to _you_."

"Okay. Whatever. I'll send someone up to check on him. I'm just grabbing my sketchbook first so I can make a drawing of the testicles."

"Oh, and get some samples of the stone for _your_ boyfriend to test."

"I will most happily do that, because he _is_ my boyfriend! And I _love_ giving him samples!"

"What does that even mean?"

"Something filthy."

"It always is with you, isn't it?"

"I do try!" Ariadne's smile was cherubic. "Yusuf said he never would have expected such tremendous filth to come in such a small, adorable package. But I've always thought a proper archaeologist should like to work in the dirt with their body _and_ their mind."

"You're a credit to your profession that way." Arthur grinned in spite of himself. Ari always cheered him up. For some unfathomable reason, in spite of how Arthur was… _Arthur_ , Ariadne actually seemed to like him. And he was grateful. "Go sketch your testicles."

"You got it, boss," she called over her shoulder as she turned to trot off toward her tent. "Love you! Love my job!"

Arthur loved his job, too. He did.

He turned away from Eames's testicles and away from the ocean breeze and headed back to his field office. There were mangoes there, at least. He could have one while he went over the mapping spreadsheets, and that would be a treat.

 

***

 

Arthur didn't come out of his tent again until the sun was setting, and a quick glance around the site confirmed Nash and his crew were still up on top of the cliff. Arthur frowned, but tried to push down the unsettled feeling he had watching them up there, walking all over the place, all over the ground where the head of the Penis was mere yards under the surface, awaiting excavation. It was fine. Ariadne was probably right—they were just dicking around with the grid setup. And it was only taking so long because, well, Nash was in charge of it.

The thing about Nash was…God, it was so _embarrassing_. Arthur played it off with Ariadne like it was no big deal, but it was embarrassing, it was unprofessional, and Arthur was ashamed of himself for letting it happen. Not that there was anything wrong with getting off with someone, putting aside for a moment that it was Nash, but this was a _job_. This was _the_ job, the biggest most important dig of Arthur's life, the one he had been researching for _years_.

The thing about Nash was…they'd never have fucked _at all_ if it hadn't been for the damn dreams. And Ariadne wouldn't know about it _at all_ if Yusuf hadn't spotted Nash coming out of Arthur's hotel room before that morning they'd left Mombasa for the site.

It was the _dreams._ Sure, Arthur had read all the reports his team collected, but he'd never anticipated he'd experience the dreams himself. And he stumbled out of bed, out of his room for air afterward, drenched in sweat and breathing hard, and it was dark and Nash was just _there_ and then Nash was just _on his knees_ and…well. It happened. It shouldn't have happened, but it did.

It wasn't just him, of course. The dreams were affecting everyone. Sure, people hooked up on digs sometimes, uncomfortable and unhygienic as the conditions could be, but this time it was _everyone_. In the small hours of night the entire camp practically undulated with the rhythmic, muffled sounds of people fucking in close-quarters tents after they'd awoken agonizingly wet or hard from a dream—something vague, something they couldn't quite recall, but something that had left them with the memory of being touched exactly the way they'd always wanted to be touched.

If only something like that could be real. And it wasn't like Arthur had never had good sex, because he totally _had_ , but…well…whatever, it wasn't fair to compare that to some sort of imaginary, impossible super-sex from a _dream_.

He'd finally asked Yusuf, one morning after he'd nearly beat himself raw in his tent and was pretty sure everyone who looked at him could see _sad lonely masturbator_ written in glowing script across his forehead, "How do you stand it, you people who live here, every night with dreams like _this_?"

The bastard had snickered at Arthur's plight for far too long—after all _he_ had a beautiful and incredibly filthy-minded girlfriend to share his tent with—before he finally said, with a big, shit-eating grin, like it was no big deal at all, "You get used to it."

Well, Arthur wasn't getting used to it yet, and it was affecting his _work_ and he'd always had more self-control than this, no matter how randomly horny he was or how enthusiastically someone volunteered to suck his cock. The timing wasn't right. The place wasn't right.  Arthur wasn't a high school boy anymore, slave to his hormones; he was a fully-grown, in-control, responsible professional, top of his class at Cornell, Project Director on what was going to be the archaeological _find of the century_ , the one that was going to bring _Dominick Cobb_ out of seclusion and he would praise Arthur's paper and they would have their picture taken together and everyone would know Arthur's name _then_ and—Arthur was _not_ going to be defeated by his own penis.

He just needed to get himself off _preemptively_ so the dream wouldn't hit him so hard. So to speak. Then he could get on with work straight away when he woke up in the morning. Arthur's personal tent was only a short walk from the field office tent, and there weren't many crew around, so he might as well get it over with now.

Some of the off-duty crew had struck up what looked vaguely like a softball game at the edge of camp, just inside the guards' patrol perimeter, and their laughter and shouts, a mixture of English and Swahili, drifted over the tinny sound of Congolese pop from someone's shitty MP3 player and the low hum of the generators. The aroma of something nutty and tomato-y and spicy was on the air, mingling with the eucalyptus smell of insect repellent. It could be just another summer day out there, with a ball game and a cookout and music.

Arthur slipped inside his tent and lay down with his shoulders propped up against his rolled-up bedroll. He retrieved his unscented travel lotion and a biodegradable tissue from his personal essentials kit—which he'd kept conveniently nearby since the dreams started—opened the top button of his plants, unzipped the fly, and took himself in hand. It _could_ be just another summer day, and Arthur could relax. He bit his lip, concentrating on relaxing. And what if someone was touching his dick? That would feel good. See, he had imagination. He didn't need a dream. He moved his hand slowly, long, smooth, coaxing pulls. Yeah, someone was doing something to his dick. Arthur squeezed his eyes more tightly shut. He didn't need a dream, some phantom lover touching, teasing, whispering, nipping at his neck and— _oh_. _There it was._

The ground beneath him shuddered.

Arthur's eyes flew open.

The playful shouting outside turned to cries of clear alarm.

What the _fuck_? Earthquake? Could it be an earthquake? Arthur shoved his cock roughly back into his pants and pushed his sweaty hair off his forehead as he scrambled up and out of his tent.

All eyes in camp were on the cliff, and Arthur turned his head just in time to see it: the cliff face _shifted_ with another rumbling groan and the last of the crew still at the top scattered. The ground beneath them heaved, dust and rubble flying into the air. And as Arthur stood gaping, horrified, a gush of crystal-clear water caught the low light of the setting sun and then spilled over the side of the cliff.

It was strange what went through your mind when time slowed down and everything you'd worked _so hard_ for came crashing down right in front of you.

Arthur remembered the warm weight of Professor Saito's hand on his shoulder after Arthur's thesis defense. Arthur's tiny, white-walled apartment in New York, how quiet it was when the window was closed. A fragment of poetry, something about _turmoil_. Arthur's first stainless steel canteen, the birthday present he'd proudly carried to school because he was sure the other kids was think it was cool and _he_ was cool and then Gordon Yoxall had taken it from him.

Huge fragments of rock vaulted the cliff's edge along with the surge of water, all tumbling down, down, to crush all Arthur's crew's painstakingly-laid grids and splatter mud and rubble across the exposed testicles.

_Ceaseless turmoil seething_.

That was it.

 

***

 

The crew had all reported back safely, miraculously enough—everyone but Nash, and the crew said he was okay—so there was no need for a rescue, but Arthur was going to the top of the cliff himself anyway to see the damage. After they saw his eyes, no one tried to persuade him to wait until morning. Even Ariadne had backed away from the look he'd turned on her, and then dropped her shoulders in resignation and shoved a walkie-talkie and a headlamp into his hands.  It was dark by the time Arthur finished his climb up the makeshift ladders, platforms, and stairs that had been constructed to Arthur's rigorous safety standards as an alternative to the now-fallen pulley lift. Each breath he took on the way seemed to push down, compact, the ball of ice in his gut a little more.

Nash was just standing there at the top, in the middle of the rubble beside a great, smooth curve of stone that could only be the head of the Penis jutting up from the ruptured ground.

When he saw Arthur, he laughed, looking wild-eyed in the light from Arthur's headlamp, like one of those videos of a hyena from a night safari.

"Did you see that? Jesus Christ, Arthur, did you _see_ it?"

"Yes. I saw it," Arthur said quietly. Nash, he noted, was also standing very close to the edge of the cliff.

"Fucking incredible." Nash's voice was high, giddy. He dragged his fingers through his lanky hair, shook his head. "Just, fucking…I never thought…I never…"

Arthur focused his gaze behind Nash on the crescent moon that was starting to rise over the scattering of twisty, umbrella-shaped trees to the south-east. Moonlight, starlight were so much brighter out here under the Kenyan sky than he'd ever seen before. Even though he traveled for a living, Arthur was a long way from home. It made him feel…distant. "What happened?"

Nash's eyes narrowed warily, squinting into Arthur's headlamp light. "We were marking off. And I thought…you said it wouldn't be far down. Six, ten feet. You did those calculations. But how did we know for sure? And I could just…check. You aren't _perfect_. I could see if you had it right."

Arthur's back teeth clenched so tightly his jaw hurt. But he spoke softly. "And did I?"

Nash looked away. "As soon as my shovel hit stone…it…it _rang_. I dropped it. But the tip of the Penis was right _there,_ I was so…excited. I…kept digging…with my hands." He held his scraped-knuckle, dirt-caked hands up. "And then…" He swallowed visibly, looked at Arthur again, wide-eyed. "I felt it. It was…warm. It didn't feel… _right_. Feel it, Arthur."

Arthur stepped forward to the edge of the arc of stone and knelt slowly. He reached down and put his hand on the tip of the Penis. The stone _was_ warm, but then it had been exposed to the sun for a while before it set. Arthur exhaled a soft breath. He was _touching_ it. The head of the Penis. He'd touched the testicles and the small section of the shaft they'd exposed, but this was…different. Arthur moved his palm across the stone's surface, just a small motion, but reverent.

The stone trembled under his touch.

Arthur jerked his hand away.

A gust of wind blew low across the ground, stirring clouds of dust.

Nash inhaled sharply and then hissed out, " _See?_ "

Arthur straightened, grateful the glow from his headlamp would make it harder for Nash to see his face. He took another careful breath, and another, while he brushed off his hands. "Aftershock," he said.

"Aftershock? Arthur, you can't actually believe—"

"What I believe, Nash, is that what you did up here was completely unprofessional and explicitly in violation of site procedure."

"And it got you what _you_ wanted," Nash lashed out. He stamped a booted foot on the curved stone. "Here it is, right in front of you. Your precious _Penis_."

"You will pack up your gear and you will get off my site."

"That's _twice_ now I've given you _exactly what you wanted_."

Arthur's stomach turned, but he kept his voice steady. "Yusuf will drive you back to Mombasa in the morning. Straight to the airport. And he'll watch you take the first flight out."

"To _where_?"

"I don't care."

"Arthur, it wasn't my fault! How was I supposed to know it was going to… _blow up?_ "

"Nash. Just go."

"But it's _dark_."

"You'd better be careful, then," Arthur said.

"Arthur…" Nash took a tentative step forward and whispered, "I thought we had something."

Arthur switched off his headlamp, because he couldn't bear the stricken look on Nash's face another moment. "I'll radio down to Ariadne to expect you," he said, and turned away.

There were several long moments of tense silence before Arthur finally heard Nash slink away toward the stairs, muttering under his breath.

Arthur remained standing alone, his hands shaking, for a long time before the dusty, exposed arc of the glans. He could see the sea from here, rippled with moonlight and then fading away into black. He let that nothingness fill his mind. The breeze was stirring, gentle now, whispering. It ruffled his hair softly. Stroked the back of his neck.

It felt very much like the caress of warm fingers.

It was nearly dawn before Arthur went back down the cliff face and crawled, weary-eyed, into his tent to sleep.

 

***

 

It was summer, and everyone but Arthur was outside, grilling, drinking beer, running across the field toward the Falls to cool off. Arthur's eyes were closed, but he could hear laughter, like sunlight sparkling on water, could smell green grass and Coppertone. Arthur didn't have the time for it. He should be working. But it was so warm. And no one would see. And he was already lying on his bedroll. His tent was zipped up tight and no one would see, and his hand, greasy with sun lotion, was inside his swim trunks.

It felt good.

Arthur squeezed his eyelids more tightly shut and twisted his wrist.

It felt _so_ good.

His soft gasp of pleasure was echoed by whispering sound, almost a sigh. Or was it a laugh?

Arthur's eyes flew open.

There was a man inside his tent.

The first thing Arthur noticed was that the man was fucking _hot_ , muscled arms that could hold him easily up against a wall and a mouth so sweet Arthur would never go hungry again. So fucking hot that the rush of fear that shivered down Arthur's spine was matched by a hot punch of desire low in his belly.

The second thing Arthur noticed was the man was holding a paper plate absolutely _heaped_ with picnic food. Macaroni salad, fruit, hot dogs, chips, baked beans…and he didn't even have a _fork_.

The third thing Arthur noticed was that he hadn't stopped jerking himself.

The man looked at Arthur, lying there with his splayed legs and his slicked-up cock half out, and popped a potato chip into his mouth. His teeth were crooked. He started chewing.

And Arthur was still jerking himself off. In front of some random (hot), chip-crunching stranger.

The man licked salt from the corner of his plush, perfect mouth and smirked when Arthur's next exhale turned into a groan.

He should stop…pumping. He should be ashamed of himself. He shouldn't let this man _watch_ him, not like this. But the way his hand was moving felt so good…like he was just at the edge of a _discovery_ …and he didn't _want_ to stop.

The stranger tilted his head at Arthur, considering. Then he selected a chunk of melon from his plate—green-gold ripe and dripping. He parted his lips slightly and brought the piece of fruit to his mouth, pinched between his thumb and forefinger. And paused. A big drop of juice slid slowly down his finger.

Arthur's breath caught. His hand stilled, squeezed tight around the head of his cock.

The man opened his mouth wide enough to place the piece of melon oh-so-delicately on his tongue, then closed his lips around his index finger and, eyes flashing with playful mirth, sucked off the sticky juice with a raunchy slurp.

And Arthur, biting back a whine, came all over himself.

A slow, pleased smile spread over the man's face as he waited for Arthur's breathing to steady before he said, in a rough honeycomb of a voice, "Hello, my Arthur." He held out his plate. "Pickle?"

 

***

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur cleans up the site and gets filthy.

Ariadne chewed on her lip as she surveyed the site. "I know you probably won't believe it, Arthur," she finally said, "but I don't think it's as bad as it looks."

"You're right. I don't believe it," Arthur said flatly.

Ariadne rolled her eyes.

Arthur scowled up at her. "And I wish you'd get down."

"It's just a rock," Ariadne folded her arms stubbornly atop the chest-high chunk of fallen stone she'd clambered onto for a better view of the damage. "I've actually stood on rocks before. It's not a high-skill activity."

"It's not safe."

"Right, the rock could _lunge_ out from under me at any moment."

"It _lunged_ off the top of the cliff last night."

"Yeah, well…you've got me there," Ariadne said wryly. "So what are you thinking? What happened?"

"Earthquake," Arthur muttered. "Probably."

Ariadne's eyebrows twitched up. "You think so?"

"It makes sense," Arthur said, and folded his arms over his chest, mirroring Ariadne. It did make sense, damn it, more sense than…well, there was no other explanation that made _any_ sense. And Arthur liked things to make sense. Even in the middle of chaos, things could make _sense_. That was how you stopped chaos, one piece of order at a time. "They do have them around here. We should check with the local—"

"No seismic events reported out of Mombasa. Whatever it was, it was localized."

Arthur frowned and tilted his head back to look up at the top of the cliff. The dome of the glans poked up over the edge, a slow trickle still issuing from a crack at its tip. The water broke into rivulets as it ran down the vertical strata, the smaller streams drying up in the morning sun before they reached ground.

"But, look, Arthur," Ariadne pointed. "It _wasn't_ that bad. The testicles don't look damaged at all, which is, like, _crazy_ luck. And see up there, it looks like that's some more of the shaft exposed, doesn't it?"

"Maybe," Arthur conceded cautiously, running his gaze down a thick ridge of rock that didn't quite line up with the rest of the vertical strata. "But those fissures worry me. Those are new. And they're everywhere."

"They're…small."

"They're _small_? Do you even hear yourself?"

Ariadne spread her hands. "I'm just trying to—"

"No." Arthur shook his head adamantly, suddenly so frustrated he could hardly see. His site, _his_ responsibility, and it was wrecked, and it was so unfair, and he should have checked on Nash himself, he shouldn't have just _trusted_ and he was such an _idiot._ "We don't even know if the Penis is _stable_ anymore. It's not _okay_. None of this is _okay_. So just stop it. Stop your sunny egg-face it's-all-okay optimistic _bullshit_. There could be another incident at any moment. Maybe worse this time. Which is why you should _get the hell down_ off that rock. We need to assess the damage. We need safety evaluations. Christ, why aren't we _doing_ anything yet? And where the _fuck_ is Yusuf?"

Ariadne sighed and closed her eyes for five full seconds before she turned back to Arthur and said, very patiently, very slowly, " _Yusuf_ isn't back yet from seeing your chimpanzee-eared twat of a boyfriend off in Mombasa, that's where the _fuck_ he is. And Jayne and Kiprono are already getting their shit ready to come out because apparently geologists and engineers have shit they have to _get ready_ to do damage assessments and safety evaluations _._ And I'm out here trying to make a plan about how to handle this cluster fuck with _you_ , because we're the two people in charge of this cluster fuck." Her hands went to her hips, and the patience in her voice took on a sharper edge. "And _you're_ standing here yelling at me. So _that's_ what everyone is doing."

Arthur blinked at her. "Oh."

"Right. _Oh_." She jumped down off the rock and reached up to put a hand on his shoulder. "And this is not your fault, Arthur."

Arthur's breath rushed out at her touch, and he realized how tightly he was clenching his fists, how tightly he was clenching…everything. "Of course it is," he tried to say through the tension in his chest. His voice came out embarrassingly strangled. "Ari, of course it is."

"Because you cause earthquakes?"

Arthur just shook his head.

"Arthur?"

Arthur sighed. "Yeah?"

"Sunny egg-face?"

Arthur's surprised laugh snorted out. "I meant, like, sunny-side up. I don't know. I'm sorry. Really. I…didn't sleep well," he said, blinking away visions of bright eyes and juice-sticky fingers and the wet _pop_ of that _mouth._ And waking up with his still-warm come soaking into his underwear.

"Me neither," Ariadne said drily.

Arthur frowned. "He didn't give you any trouble did he?"

Ariadne's nose wrinkled. "Yusuf?"

"Nash."

"Pfft. Nah. He went quietly enough."

"He's not my boyfriend."

Ariadne smirked. "Not anymore, that's for sure."

"Not ever. I should never have…" Arthur frowned down at his shoes, flushing. "I just shouldn't have."

"Arthur, really." Ariadne's eyes were dark with concern. "Are you okay?"

Arthur sighed and walked to the base of the cliff. He put a hand against the sun-warmed sandstone. "Didn't you feel it when we got here? Like this job was something _special_? Like there was something more…"

"Alive?" Ariadne said softly.

The stone beneath Arthur's palm felt like…stone. Nothing special. He said, just as quietly, "Dominick Cobb isn't coming, is he?"

Ariadne's face went softly sympathetic, but she glanced up at the crumbled edge of the cliff, and then at the rubble strewn around the base in front of the testicles, and she said, "No."

"Okay." Arthur swallowed.

"It was always a long shot."

"I know." Arthur nodded. "It's okay. I'm okay. We'll just keep going, right?"

"Fucking right, we will, Arthur." Ariadne thumped him on the shoulder. "Okay, then."

"Okay then."

"So, like I was saying, Jayne and Kiprono are getting ready."

"Good. I'll be waiting for their reports."

Ariadne gave him a cheerfully defiant look. "And I still say, with my egg-face, it's _not_ as bad as it looks."

"At least the dreams are still happening," Arthur offered up in an attempt to compromise. "That's something."

Ariadne's frown was brief. "Yeah, well," she rubbed a hand over the back of her neck and shrugged. "I didn't really sleep."

"Yeah, you look like shit."

"And you _are_ a shit. A big, giant one. With flies."

Arthur smiled. A real smile. Because how would he do this without her? "I know."

Ariadne grinned back. "Okay, then. Let's take care of our Mr. Eames."

"Our Mr. Eames," Arthur echoed, like a salute.

 

***

 

John Thomas Eames, born c. 1497 to an unwed servant on the estate of Morris Fisher, Earl of Morrowe. A letter, dated 1513, from the Pastor of West Morrowe to his cousin noted that he had taken on young Eames, in spite of the reputation the boy had already gained as a petty thief, carouser, and scoundrel, as his apprentice in the pastor's consuming hobby of map-making. Pastor Boswell went on in the letter to praise Eames's natural talent and to express his confidence the young man would mend his ways given a steady occupation.

Eames had flourished under the Pastor's tutelage, becoming a respected cartographer in his own right. He had sailed with notable explorers and traders of the era, even Magellan once, mapping coastlines.

But he apparently had _not_ mended his ways entirely, for not only did accounts of Eames's voyages reinforce his rakish reputation, but Eames finally caught the particular disfavor of the Earl. It was here the correspondence upon which the tale had been reconstructed grew vague, but apparently Eames had stolen something from the Earl—Ariadne had guessed it was the Earl's wife—that brought the Earl to swear vengeance on Eames.

And so Morris Fisher had contracted an assassin to murder Eames on his next voyage, and Eames had sailed out on the Portuguese carrack Sonho do Mar never to return.

The sailors who did return, the ones whose records of the voyage remained, told tales ranging from merely unverifiable to patently absurd, but there was one thing they all had in common: the Penis. In some the Penis was a giant squid, and when Eames had battled it, the squid turned to stone as it died, rearing up in agony. In others, Eames seduced the daughter, or the son, or both, of a great shaman who had sealed Eames, mummified, into a penis-shaped tomb. In others, Eames had been the beloved of a great queen, but he had died at sea before he could reach her again, and in her despair she had ordered her people to build a great monument. The Penis of Eames.

And of course, not one of the sailors could remember exactly where the damn thing was.

The Penis had fallen into legend.

At least until Arthur began his research.

 

***

 

Jayne and Kiprono cleared the site for preliminary cleanup to begin around the base of the cliff within a certain perimeter of the testicles while they continued their tests on the fissures in the cliff face and on the glans. All hands were called in with brooms and picks and portable pulley rigs to begin clearing away debris and re-establishing the site grid. Once the main pulley lift was re-rigged, tested, and re-tested, and re-tested again, Arthur sent Yusuf and a small team of techs up to the glans to join Jayne for stone and water samples.

Arthur spent his day with the crew and the hard labor of the clean-up, hauling rock, making sure the fallen stone was organized properly and any further damage was avoided. It felt good, like penance, and like progress. His body was busy and his mind was focused only on the tasks at hand. He stayed on when the first crew's shift ended, and worked until the sun went down and his limbs were shaking with fatigue.

The whole camp was eerily quiet in its common exhaustion when he trailed in along with the last crew. No music. No laughter. Now and then the low murmur of quiet conversation or the clink of a spoon against a bowl. Arthur frowned down at the unopened bag of potato chips in his hand. He didn't remember picking it up when they walked by the mess tent, and he was too tired to eat them anyway. The day's heat still lingered in the heavy air. There was no breeze at all, and the mosquitoes were getting thick.

He should take a shower. He should go to the field office, daily notes to write, master lists to update, new schedule… But Arthur went straight to his tent, peeled off his sweat-sticky clothes, pulled on his pyjama pants, and was asleep nearly as soon as he allowed himself to collapse onto his bedroll.

 

***

 

Arthur was sweating and grimy and filthy and it was _so_ hot out here on the empty, scrubby, sandy-soiled plain. His pyjama bottoms were sticking to him, and there was a crusty patch of his dried come still on them. He shoved them down, stepped out, and walked naked toward the waterfall.

The trickle of water down the side of the cliff had turned into a heavy cascade, coursing over sharp outcroppings and rounded boulders. Glimpses of rainbow arcs shifting in the spray, shaded by the verdant cluster of trees that had grown up around the secret cove at the waterfall's base. Even from here he could hear the soothing white noise buzz of the water. Water that would feel so cool, so clean on his body. Washing away, secret and private where no one could see.

But the closer he got, the more muddy the ground became. It squelched up between his toes and spatter-flecked his thighs and his stomach as he walked. The mud was _warm_ , the water was _warm_ , Arthur could feel its heat from the edge of the pool where it emptied, see the steam curling off the slick-sheen surface.

And there was someone else on the far side of the pool.

A man, standing atop a boulder amidst the topaz-glinted spray from the waterfall. _Pickle Man_. Naked. Shoulders and chest decorated with tattoos. Thickly-muscled, from his arms to to the lush curve of his ass. A wave of pure desire, hotter than the surrounding air, hotter than the water, swept over Arthur.

 _Eames_.

Arthur said the name before he realized he was speaking aloud, but it was absorbed into the roar of the waterfall. But if the man _had_ heard, Arthur would have explained to him that he was not _actually_ Eames. Of course not. The real Eames was dead and dust, buried somewhere deep beneath the Penis. This Eames was simply the power of suggestion, Arthur's projection of what the personification of the Penis of Eames might look like, mixed with…well, every gorgeous bit of flesh Arthur wanted to see in a man.

Arthur shivered. His cock was liking what he saw, too, in spite of the horrid, filthy condition he was in, which was just…inappropriate.

So Arthur would just walk over and he would explain to the man that he was _not_ Eames and he had no business at Arthur's private waterfall pool.

Except that was when not-really-Eames turned his head and saw Arthur, and his face bloomed with a big, delighted smile.

And Arthur's feet went out from under him in the mud.

He slipped, slid, arms flailing wildly in the air, graceless as a two-legged giraffe on ice until his hands latched onto an overhead vine. He hauled himself to something resembling a standing position, humiliated, mud oozing around his ankles, his whole body now spattered and dripping with the stuff, and wasn't this all just _wonderful_? He finally risked a look across the pool.

Eames was doubled over, laughing.

"Asshole!" Arthur shouted, his voice once again disappearing into the waterfall's tumult.

Eames looked like he understood Arthur's meaning clearly enough, though. Still grinning, possibly giggling, he sunk down to one knee on the wet rock, placing a hand over his heart in supplication. He held his other hand out to Arthur. Beckoning, all dark eyes and mouth curved in amused, indulgent promise.

Arthur tried to take a step, but his feet immediately started to slide, and he had to grab onto the vine again with both hands to stay upright. Face scrunched in frustration, he looked at Eames, set his jaw, and shook his head angrily _no_ , like he hadn't actually _wanted_ to go to him.

Eames straightened slowly, his hand still over his heart, his expression sobering slightly. He tilted his head, considering Arthur closely, just like he had in the tent.

And Arthur just hung there, arms over his head, feet trapped in the mud, stretched out in front of this hot-eyed stranger, naked, completely helpless.

His breath started to come faster.

He was _completely_ exposed, stretched out and helpless and _filthy_.

His pulse began to throb in his veins.

Eames smiled slowly, and squeezed the hand over his chest into a fist. Glistening mud oozed out of it, running red-orange down his chest, over the gentle, asymmetrical swell of his abs. Then he opened his hand again, flat against his chest, and ran it down his body, smearing the mud into his skin, down his stomach, over his hip, and then, eyes fluttering closed, between his legs to stroke mud up his cock.

And Arthur _yelped_ and bucked against the vines because…

He _felt it._

He felt the slide of a fist up his cock, the brush of the tip of a finger through the muddy hair around it.

Eames had opened his eyes again. Watching. Staring, lower lip caught between his teeth. His chest rose and fell in time with Arthur's, but he had stilled. Waiting, hand around his cock. And, somehow, Arthur's. His eyes were intense, knowing, and Arthur couldn't look away.

"Yes," Arthur whispered.

Eames's chest heaved, like a gasp, and he squeezed his fist.

"Yes." Arthur arched into the touch, eyes locked on Eames's.

And then Eames bared his teeth and his fist was a sudden, desperate blur, stroking himself fast, hard, like he had to come in the next _seconds_ or he would _die_ of wanting and Arthur, stretched out, helpless, _aching_ , more vulnerable than he had ever felt, could only buck and squirm into Eames's rhythm, _Eames's hand_ around him. _Eames_ , mouth hanging open, wet and wanting, stomach heaving like he was panting out Arthur's own breaths, and Arthur couldn't close his eyes, until he was coming, so hard, so sudden, sweaty and sticky and quivering, pulsing _filthy_ all over his own stomach, down his leg, thick white on top of the sticky mud.

Arthur groaned and squeezed his toes into the hot ooze around his feet just as the sun moved between two trees, sending bright rays bouncing off the water, dazzling his vision. Between the spray of diamond dust, he thought he saw Eames stand. He thought he saw Eames smile.

And then someone shouted his name.

 

***

 

"Arthur!"

Arthur gasped awake, shooting straight to sitting, blinking. The sun was bright through his tent wall. Shadows of the scrubby little plants outside danced and skittered on the white canvas.

"Yusuf?" he called out, voice gravelly.

"Get your ass out here," yelled Ariadne.

Arthur cleared his throat. "What's going on?"

"Everything!" Yusuf said.

"Yeah, but forget the tremors."

"Tremors?" Arthur rubbed his eyes. Then he rubbed his ear, because that word didn't make any sense. "Tremors?"

"Yusuf's found something!" Ariadne sounded a little wild. "You need to hear. Arthur, _right now_."

Arthur looked down at the soppy mess at the front of his pyjama pants and sighed. "I'll…just be a minute."

 

***


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yusuf delivers a discovery about the Penis: don't drink the water. And just like there's more to the Penis of Eames, Arthur finds out there's also more to the man in his dreams.

Arthur blinked. "It's what?"

"It's leaking _pre-come_." Ariadne repeated, louder this time. A field tech passing by their little huddle raised her eyebrows and then smirked.

Arthur winced a little and tugged Ariadne toward the back side of the field office tent, farther away from potential camp traffic.

Yusuf sauntered along behind them, one hand in his pocket, looking pensive, and said, "No, that's inaccurate."

"But you're saying it's not water?" Arthur frowned.

"Well, it is water, just as it appears. But the water _contains_ a distinct combination of proteins, fructose, acid phosphatase, _no_ gamma glutamyltransferase—"

"Idiot's guide to chemistry, Yusuf," Arthur cut in.

"Right." Yusuf gave a little shrug, the light in his eyes from starting up on a long list of chemicals only fading a little. "It has the correct composition of pre-seminal fluid."

"But that's just…crazy. There's nothing else it could be?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Seawater?"

Yusuf threw his head back and laughed, shaking his head like Arthur was just _incorrigible_. "Seawater with fructose. Arthur, you really _can_ be funny."

"Then it's someone playing a joke, right?"

"Or." Ariadne flung her arm up in a gesture of presentation toward the Penis. " _Hello_. It _is_ a penis."

"It's a rock," Arthur corrected firmly, even though his skin prickled with a sort of _awareness_ when he looked up at the top of the cliff, where sunlight glinted off the wet tip of the dome.

_Hello, my Arthur_.

Arthur took a deep breath. "Do we know the source of that water yet? Some sort of underground stream? It could have been contaminated."

"By dripping cocks?" Yusuf raised an eyebrow. "I have Tadashi re-running the analysis for confirmation, but he's not going to find anything different. My results are accurate. I can't tell you how it got there, but I can tell you what it is."

"Pre-come!" Ariadne chirped, bouncing on her toes a little. "What? Why am I the only one excited by pre-jack?"

Arthur stroked his chin thoughtfully. _Pre_ -ejaculatory. Which suggested… "What about some sort of volcanic activity?"

Yusuf shrugged. "Not my area. Jayne surely would have noticed gasses or, you know, magma puddling about."

"You said something about more tremors."

"Aftershocks," Ariadne said, "we think."

Yusuf narrowed his eyes at Arthur. "Didn't you feel it?"

"No. I was…" ( _Strung up and dripping come into the mud_.) Arthur felt a shiver run down his spine. "Sleeping. Did we get a magnitude reading?"

"All I can tell you is it felt like a big truck drove through camp," Yusuf offered, rubbing a hand through his thick hair, which was already sticking up at all angles. He yawned. "What magnitude is that—big truck?"

"Uh oh, I think he's used up his science," Ariadne smiled and put a hand on Yusuf's arm. "This is a thing that happens."

"Two nights of shitty sleep are catching up with me, alright? And my science is never depleted." Yusuf sniffed. "It rests. It lies in wait."

"So," Ariadne said to Arthur sideways as her gaze lingered on Yusuf's face. "Jayne and Kiprono time again?" She reached up to tuck one of Yusuf's dark curls back into place, and he smiled down at her.

Ariadne and Yusuf. They were good together.  Ari was so expressive with him, touching a lot, relaxed, playful, fond. Yusuf's eyes warmed whenever he looked at her, especially when she didn't notice him looking.

Eames had looked at Arthur that same warm and playful way from the other side of the waterfall's pool, like he'd be the sort of person who would tuck a curl of Arthur's hair behind his ear. Well, before the smoldering and the frantic orgasm. And of _course_ Arthur knew that had all been a dream and it wasn't real. But still, somehow, it made him feel better. Better than he had in a days, months, definitely since the start of this project. Like he had discovered a place he could go for comfort, for release, like he had something going on inside him that wasn't entirely about the job.

His job, which was now to deal with both unexplained seismic activity and the news that the Penis of Eames was leaking pre-ejaculatory fluid. Arthur looked at the cliff face, his eyes slightly unfocused, and waited for the tension at the back of his neck, the slick flip of failure in his stomach, the tightening of his chest in panic. All that came was the memory of the low hiss of the waterfall and a stoic sense of calm. Almost like, even if everything wasn't going exactly to plan and Arthur wasn't completely in control of the earth and elements, it might still be something he could deal with.

"Arthur?"

"Hm?" Arthur refocused his eyes. "Yeah. Jayne and Kiprono."

Ariadne looked at him a little more closely. "You okay?"

Arthur smiled. He _was_ okay. He felt, in fact, like he had a delicious secret. "You've been asking me that a lot."

"Well. You're high maintenance. You freak out."

"I'm not freaking out."

"And that's starting to freak me out."

"It's like we said the other night, Ari. We just keep going." Arthur shrugged. He didn't understand this strange new air of _ease_ either. It was like…an afterglow. "We can only take these things as they come, right?"

Ariadne's eyes widened slightly. She bit her lip.

"You want to make a come joke right now, don't you?"

Ariadne nodded, biting her lip harder.

"Fortunately, one of us here is still a professional," Arthur said archly, suppressing a ( _muscles clenching, white ribbons_ ) smug smile. "So. Jayne and Kiprono. I want a report _specifically_ on the possibility of volcanic activity or any sort of potential eruptions. No one else on site until the all clear. In fact, daily safety inspections first thing going forward. That's our new SOP. Yusuf, I'll need you to re-sample the, uh, fluid—"

"Water," Yusuf interjected. "With trace chemicals."

"Re-sample it, see if anything has changed since your last readings. And I'd like to try finding the source of the stream if we can. Among other things, it could be relevant to the internal construction of the Penis."

"Got it," Yusuf nodded.

"What are you going to do?" asked Ariadne.

"Shower. Breakfast. Probably scrambled eggs."

"You're freaking me out."

Arthur smirked and turned back toward his tent to fetch his towel. "Keep me apprised."

 

***

_Eames._

John Thomas Eames.

How ridiculous was it to have a crush on your own dream?

Arthur went on about his morning's agenda on the low, buzzy, edge of arousal.

He took a shower, less grossed out than he usually was by the fact that the camp showers were almost as funky-smelling and disgusting as having not bothered with a shower at all. And although less than three gallons of water only got you so much luxury, at one point he closed his eyes and folded his arms over his head and imagined that the droplets of water running down his body were fingertips, imagined a full lip bitten between crooked teeth, biting his own lip so he felt it like Eames would have.

Clean and dressed, he settled himself in his field office, a hot mug of the crappy camp coffee steaming on his desk ( _steam off the hot pool at the base of the waterfall_ ). When Ariadne came in to tell him the field techs, collectively, were getting _irritatingly_ restless, Arthur genially gave his permission for a morning field trip to the beach with the conditions that everyone had to be able to return on fifteen minutes notice and _sober_. Yusuf's latest round of supplies from Mombasa had replenished the liquor (and condoms, and lubricant) the camp seemed to go through in record quantities. Arthur didn't even mind that there were probably productive things on-site they could all be doing. It was a beautiful, relatively balmy day, with billowing white clouds far off on the horizon.

Arthur hadn't been to the nearby beach yet. He should visit sometime, maybe. ( _Eames would look so hot in swim trunks._ )

But enough. He might be more relaxed than usual, but Arthur hadn't completely taken leave of his responsibilities. The time spent waiting for Jayne's and Kiprono's check-ins could be spent catching up on his own reports. There certainly was enough new information to record.

Arthur opened his project binder and frowned briefly at the section titled "Sexually-Oriented Dreams (SOD), East Kenya, Interviews and Data." He sighed and let his gaze drift up. The sky outside the tent's screened window was a rich, summery azure blue.

Of course he'd experienced erotic dreams before he came anywhere near the Penis, like the one about the beautiful, snugly tailored suit that was completely transparent. He'd had smutty dreams, like the one where his high school math test had to be taken by fingering the teacher (he'd only counted to three, so he probably didn't even earn a high grade). But never had he dreamed so vividly as he had the past two nights. Even the dreams he'd started experiencing when they arrived in Mombasa paled in comparison. Those were like, well, _dreams_ , vague and wispy, disoriented. These new dreams…he could see every detail, he could _smell_ the food on Eames's plate, feel the mud sticking to the hairs on his legs. He could feel Eames's hand on him. The way his fingers were loose at first and then he pressed his thumb just _there_ and—

Arthur shook his head, sucked in a breath, and readjusted his pants.

Field reports. Focus on field reports.

Arthur powered up his generator and plugged in his laptop, turning back to his project binder while he waited for the computer to churn through its startup routine. There was a whole section on Eames in the binder, of course. The summary of his personal history, the text from letters mentioning him, scaled-down copies of his maps. Arthur flipped idly to the first map. Eames's history, work, and other personal information had not meant much to Arthur before, beyond the course of the man's travels and the unknowable proportions of his genitalia. But now that he looked again at these maps that Eames himself had drawn, Arthur's eyes lingered with interest on the details.

There was a map of Iceland where the sea around the island was filled with exotic, colorful, and occasionally adorable sea monsters. A giant lobster menaced a galleon. A merman beckoned a passing ship from the shore of his own tiny, rocky island. A herd of baby sea serpents trailed along behind their mother.

A more terrestrially-oriented map of the southern end of Norway and Sweden depicted mountains and streams and forests, with notes in Latin that Arthur couldn't read and vignettes scattered across the countryside of people tilling fields, chopping wood, carts traveling along the roads, riders on horseback tossing coins to a waving crowd.

A few maps were stylized as animals or people. There were beautifully intricate compass designs. Gods and goddesses in the clouds. Detailed inserts of ships or trees or people in their local costume.

Arthur's favorite of the lot was a birds-eye view of Eames's own town of West Morrowe, with a charming, spired church at the city center. Outside the low surrounding wall, the countryside bloomed with flowers and fruiting trees. Deer and dogs cavorted across rolling hills, children played in the meadows, and a couple holding hands were sneaking away behind a haystack. The map was framed with a row of portraits. Important people from the town, Arthur assumed, because there was the Earl himself in the center. He was a scowling, dour-looking fellow, at least in Eames's portrait, and Arthur frowned back at the man's likeness.

And then Arthur stilled. He licked his lips, his breath coming faster.

The final portrait on the row was Eames.

Leaving his binder open, Arthur grabbed his laptop, where he had high-resolution versions of the maps stored. He navigated to his Eames folder and opened the town map, zooming in on Eames's portrait. There was no question it was the man from his dreams. Wide, interested grey eyes, arching brows, full mouth, the face the same as Arthur's imagined Eames, right down to the slight smirk. He was less naked in his portrait. While the other men in the portraits wore black, those big white ruffs along with their solemn expressions, Eames's jacket was embroidered in greens, blues, and golds, open slightly at the neck. And he was wearing a single, small dangling pearl drop earring.

Slowly, barely breathing, like he was touching a sleeping snake, Arthur reached out a hand toward his laptop screen and pressed the very tip of his finger to the pixelated pearl.

"Hey, Arthur?"

Arthur _squeaked_ and slammed his laptop shut. "Hey! Jayne! Hey!" He crossed his legs, super-casually. "What's up?"

 

***

 

The distant, billowing clouds over the ocean had darkened and begun to grumble by the time Arthur called the techs back from the beach, and some of them grumbled as well at having their unexpected recreation time cut short. But activity back on the site didn't leave much room for sulking. The crew was cleared to begin removing the debris from the bottom of the testicles. Arthur didn't join them this time, but between supervisory visits and Ariadne, Yusuf, Kiprono, and Jayne coming in and out of the field office, his own busyness left little time or privacy for further contemplation of Eames's portrait.

The storm rolled over camp at the end of the day and everyone fled to their tents, Arthur included. He took with him the small, printed version of the West Morrowe map, tucked safely into a protective plastic sleeve so it couldn't be damaged by the sheeting rain. In his own tent, Arthur sat for a long time on his bed roll, under the lantern that swayed on its hook as the wind gusted, looking at Eames's portrait. The shifting light made the expression on Eames's face look softer, sadder when it was in shadow. Since he had looked at the map before for his research, maybe he had stored away the image of Eames's portrait somewhere in a cubbyhole in his mind and simply called it up again for the dream. It was possible that Arthur would not dream of Eames tonight at all.

Arthur wanted to dream of Eames again. Badly.

He turned down his lantern and tucked the map under his pillow. Thunder growled outside, like a tiger stalking the camp site. Lightning flickered and flashed purple-yellow. A steady fall of rain pattered against the canvas of Arthur's tent. Arthur closed his eyes.

A steady stream of laughter and chatter pattered beneath the steady thump of the bass that shook the floor of the club. Strobe lights flashed in time with the music, _untss untss_ with a Latin flavor, across the roiling, glowstick-bedecked sea of dancers.

This wasn't Arthur's usual scene—the sweet-sour smell of cocktails and beer, the raucous noise, some overindulgent idiot causing a scene at one corner of the floor—but tonight he was here for a reason. He was looking for someone. He couldn't remember exactly who it was, but Arthur was going to find him, anyway.

He moved through the crowd slowly, scanning faces lit by flashes from the strobes. It was hotter on the dance floor. Limbs and chests were bared and skin glistened with sweat as bodies churned to the rhythm with the unconcerned intimacy of anonymity. Some of the people noticed him, met Arthur's eyes, looked him up and down appreciatively and Arthur's skin pricked with _possibility_ under those hot glances. This might not be his scene, but Arthur had been here before. He knew how the transaction went. He looked good. Or he looked good enough. And so did the other guy, and they could both spare a few minutes for quick, sticky hand jobs in the terrible-smelling bathroom.

Except Arthur didn't want some _good enough_ guy for fifteen minutes, he _wanted_ to find—

A _whoop_ turned Arthur's head and the club lights flashed over what looked like a tiki lounge caught in a twister.

Because that idiot making a scene in the corner, the idiot in the most garish tropical print shirt Arthur had ever seen, was _Eames_. He apparently hadn't yet noticed Arthur looking at him. In fact, if ever anyone had danced like no one was watching, it was Eames. What the hell was he even _doing_? A disco arm roll, a John Travolta hip check. Kick, leg skip, like he was in a Greek wedding. And…was that the _lindy hop_? He looked absolutely ridiculous, and absolutely intent on his moves, and absolutely joyful.

Warmth bloomed in Arthur's chest, and all he could think was _oh, god, that man got me off,_ which is when Eames looked up and spotted him and held out his arms.

"Arthur! _Mi querido, cari_ _ño_! Come and dance with me!"

And all Arthur could think was _oh, god, he's beautiful_ and he shivered where he stood, then nodded toward a door just past the end of the bar.

Eames turned to look, then raised a questioning eyebrow at Arthur, but Arthur was already moving toward the room he knew would be behind that door. He gave Eames a beckoning look over his shoulder, and Eames's eyes lit with curiosity as he followed.

Arthur closed the door behind them, excitement pounding in his chest, as Eames seated himself in one of the low-lit private lounge's tacky, cushy, purple chairs.

"Cosy," Eames murmured. He raked his fingers over the deep velour upholstery on the chair arms and added, quizzically, "And…fuzzy."

Arthur knelt down on the thick red shag carpet in front of Eames's chair, and Eames said, "Oh."

Arthur licked his lips and dropped his gaze to Eames's _horrible_ Bermuda shorts, which started to tighten before his eyes, plaid pattern bulging, and all the blood rushed from Arthur's head, due south.

Eames made a huffing sound before he whispered, soft-voiced, " _Yes_ , darling." He leaned forward. "But…it's not going to work quite the way you're thinking."

Arthur looked up again at Eames's face, so close, warm, smoky eyes— _beautiful, mouth-watering_ —and whispered back, nonsensically, "You have an earring in your portrait."

Eames tilted his head, smiling a little. "My portrait?"

"Mm," Arthur hummed hazily. "On the map of your town."

Eames's face froze.

Arthur frowned at him, and then his memory bloomed: frolicking deer and fruit trees and palm trees and sea monsters, Latin and bright birds and crinkly coastlines and churches with stained glass windows.

Eames blinked, several times, rapidly, and leaned all the way forward, earnest, eyes horribly vulnerable with hope, and said in a small, breathless voice, "My maps survived?"

And Arthur remembered. Arthur _knew_. He was in a dream. This was a dream, and he was asleep in his tent. And the Penis of Eames, the find of the century, was leaking, _unstable_.

And this was Eames.

Somehow, this was really Eames.

 

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you nolaespoir and Callie4810 for your feedback! xx


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Come, young Arthur. Sit between my knees and I will tell you a tale."

Arthur sat back heavily onto his heels and whispered, staring up at Eames, "You're him."

"Do you know how many?" Eames asked in a hushed voice. He didn't appear to have registered Arthur's awed dismay.

"How many…what?"

"My maps." Eames's eyes were wide and searching. "Do you know how many…?"

Arthur shook his head, trying to resolve the strange mixture of focus and haze in his mind. His head felt full of static again, the soft buzz of the waterfall. But there was a perfect, clear reflection of the world around him in each splashing droplet. If they would just stay _still_ for a second he could _see_. "Twenty-seven," he said distantly.

"Oh, Arthur!" Eames clapped a hand over his mouth and shot up out of his chair. "Twenty-seven?"

Startled by the sudden movement, Arthur launched himself backwards out of the way so that Eames's crotch wouldn't end up directly in his face (although admittedly that had been his active goal moments ago). He caught himself on his hands, hovering backwards on all fours like some sort of awkward carpet-crab. "Um. That I know of," he said, blinking.

Eames wiped both hands back over his hair and started to pace. "Twenty-seven," he breathed, more to himself than to Arthur. "God's nails, I thought he'd have destroyed them all."

"Who?"

Eames's gaze slid to Arthur and focused, and he gave a rueful laugh, slowing and then ending his circling steps at Arthur's feet. "Oh, pet. Do forgive me my vanity. Have I dampened the mood? I finally get you to speak with me—no barriers between us—and look what happens. I promise you I had intended to woo you with my words, not send you sprawling."

Arthur pushed himself up off the floor as gracefully as he could manage, using the chair behind him for leverage.

"Although, perhaps I should not be so quick to dismiss the sprawling." The corners of Eames's mouth curled up as he watched Arthur right himself. "You do sprawl most fetchingly."

"The Earl?" Arthur said, narrowing his eyes. The fog in his mind was starting to clear. "You thought he would have destroyed your work?"

Eames's smile faded into a cautious, curious look. "What do you know about the Earl?"

"I know _you_ ," Arthur asserted. "I know this is a dream and I know who you are. You're _Eames_. From the _Penis_."

"I am indeed." Eames gave Arthur a funny little smile and then swept him a theatrical bow, low and elegant and rendered completely absurd by his mismatched tropical tourist garb. "And I am _entirely_ ," he looked up, blue-grey eyes locking onto Arthur's as he drawled, "at your service."

Arthur's pulse jumped, dog to bell, at the throaty purr of Eames's voice, the playful lasciviousness of his gaze. Why did it take so little from this man, no more than a look, a word, to get Arthur's heart pounding? Arthur frowned. Why could he _hear_ his heart pounding? It was quiet inside the lounge. "Why has the music stopped?"

"Because you've stopped it?"

"How would I have stopped it?"

"It's your dream, darling." Eames laid a hand over his chest. "I am simply your honored and humble guest."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "I haven't gotten any impression of humility so far."

"So you do know me!" Eames's eyes danced.  "Your honored guest, then. Or were you not offering to _honor_ me?" He looked pointedly at Arthur's mouth.

"You…" Arthur flushed as heat rushed to both his face and his groin. "You've done something to me."

"I've done a number of things to you, pet. And with your gracious consent, I look forward to doing a great many more."

Arthur tried to subdue the part of himself warming…rising…with recollection of those things Eames had done to him. There had to be something more drawing him to Eames than his…hands…how soft his mouth looked…the way his thighs strained those terrible Bermuda shorts… "As if I'd normally of my own free will be so into anyone dressed like that," Arthur protested, far too feebly, gesturing at Eames's attire.

Eames gasped, then pouted, striking a look of horrified offense. "But it's spring break! I'm _blending_. Your friends all loved me!"

"What? What friends? It's not spring break. It's summer."

"It's spring break _here_. You don't recognize your dance hall?"

Arthur frowned around the plush, jewel-toned room, and then his mouth fell open as the memory rushed back. And no wonder he'd blocked it out. _Cancun_. Christ, the whole trip had been _awful_ and a _huge mistake_ and…had he passed out in this room? Ugh, why would he dream about _this_ place? "Those weren't my friends," he muttered.

Eames plopped down in the chair across from Arthur, completely naked, his clothes just _gone_. His dick gave a little bounce when his ass hit the cushion.

"Uh," said Arthur.

"Better?" Eames presented himself like the prize on a game show. "You seemed pleased enough with me this way before."

"Did I…" Arthur cleared his throat as his gaze raked from shoulders to hip creases, dragging as it caught on lines of dark ink and dark hair. "If this is my dream, does that mean…did I just make you naked?"

"Oh, no, darling. Although I am highly in favor of the concept—you making me naked—this is entirely my own contribution to our little vignette. The dream, yours. Me, my own." Eames grinned, wriggling happily into the purple velour. "And your own, of course."

"This is confusing."

"In a sexy way?" Eames asked hopefully, tracing the fingertips of one hand along the top of his thigh as he lowered his long, long, beautiful eyelashes.

"Yes," Arthur breathed, then scowled. "No! Cover that thing back up! I need to _talk_ to you."

Eames's chuckle was toe-curlingly devilish. "You _are_ confused, aren't you, pet? Here, then…" Eames waved a hand over his crotch, where a cocktail napkin appeared, unfolded, tented, bright orange with a palm tree stamped on one corner in sparkly green.

"Yeah, much better," Arthur said drily.

"And now that I am the very picture of modesty, unblemished by my ever-so-festive, unfairly-maligned holiday costume, why don't you come closer, make yourself comfortable here—between my knees, perhaps—and we can have a lovely chat? Clear up any questions rattling around your head, hm? Would that help?"

"Somehow, I don't think it's _me_ that being _between your knees_ would be most helpful to right now." Arthur said, which was actually a lie, because his dick was still _very_ interested in the idea of what it would be like to press in, take hold of Eames and work him into the same desperation he'd instilled in Arthur. Arthur averted his eyes with great effort from the soft darkness between Eames's thighs.

"Now, you see, there's a perfect example of something that needs clearing up."

"What?"

"Have you forgotten already how it was for us the last time? How it was for _you_?" Eames ran his hand, pressed hard and flat like he was smearing mud, down his chest and stomach and said, in a voice that seemed to have dropped half an octave at least, "You haven't. You're remembering right now."

Arthur's whole body heated with a self-conscious desire that made him want to squirm where he stood—the memory of himself stretched out, eager and filthy, all too vivid—but he lifted his chin and met Eames's eyes steadily. "Yes."

Eames's smile twitched. He nodded down at his lap and then winked at Arthur. "I believe the area between my knees may still hold some benefit for you."

"Are you saying…I would…" Arthur swallowed. "Feel you? The same way?"

Eames bit his bottom lip and raised his eyebrows, hovering his hand over the ridiculous paper napkin for a teasing moment before his thumb dipped just underneath the edge.

"Nnh!" The sound Arthur made was loud and embarrassing as he felt the brush of a thumb over the tip of his cock. With Eames looking right into his eyes and _knowing._ It wasn't that the touch surprised him. It was that he was so _relieved_ he was going to be able to feel it again. "How do you do that?" Arthur gasped, even as he willed Eames to stop just _smugging_ at him and take himself wholly in hand, all the way up, all the way down.

"Simple, darling." Eames swirled his hand up into a lazy wave and shrugged. "Penis magic."

" _Penis magic_."

"Give it a try," Eames said, and nodded down at himself again encouragingly. He gave Arthur a broad leer. "Pull the rabbit out of the hat."

"But…can't you just…" Arthur made a little encouraging motion of his own at the erection now straining his jeans.

"Ah." The brightness in Eames's eyes flickered. "Sorry, darling. I can't. Not like that."

"Can't…what? Touch me?" Arthur jutted his lower lip out suspiciously. "Can't or don't want to? _You, your own_ , you said."

"Very much want to." Eames's voice gruffed. His gaze slid down to Arthur's hips and grew heavy. "You've no idea. But, alas, I have certain…limitations.

"To your _penis magic_."

Eames's devious smile quirked back into place, "Fortunately, I'm quite imaginative when it comes to working around limitations. I've really only _just_ begun."

"But… _magic_?" Arthur frowned. He was a _scientist_ after all. He should make an effort at…sciencing. It was one thing to have fantastical dreams about the eponymous denizen of a giant penis, but it was another to  throw up his hands and call the whole thing _magic_. Magic was simply science not yet understood.

Eames's sigh was patient and fond. "Come, young Arthur. Sit between my knees and I will tell you a tale."

Arthur snorted, but found himself walking to Eames anyway. Apparently his body was already more than willing to believe in Eames's magic. And how could Arthur blame it? Eames, all thighs and arms and lean stomach, all swirls of ink, all subtle hands and unsubtle mouth, was a once-lonely, intense, studious young man's wet dream brought to life. Was it that alone that made Arthur give himself to Eames so willingly? Eames made him want to give way, let go his control and just let everything _flow_. Waterfalls and words and droplets of pearl.

"There's a love," Eames murmured approvingly as Arthur slowly went down on one knee in front of him. He licked his lips and his voice went soft, melodic. "Once upon a time, there was a very dashing, charming, talented, and _humble_ man. Can you guess his name?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "From the narrator's perspective, I suppose that would be _Eames_."

"Very good," Eames purred. He slid down in his chair and spread his legs open wider. The orange napkin was gone and Eames's cock lay full across his lower belly.

Arthur's breath rushed out.

"Now our hero, you must understand, was a delightful man who never did _anything_ wrong, whose very purpose was to spread joy in the world." Eames dipped his hand down so his fingers cupped his balls, squeezing just a little. "Yet he ran afoul of a very bad man."

"The Earl."

Eames smiled gently at the quaver in Arthur's voice and let his palm press down at the base of his shaft, stroke up.

"A very bad man and a very _rich_ man who wanted our beloved hero to go far away and never return. And so he made a bargain with a powerful sorcerer."

"A _sorcerer_."

Eames curled his fingers around himself and slid his hand up to the head of his cock, squeezing, pulling, and Arthur made an entirely unintentional whimpering sound. "That extra bit of butter you're enjoying on your loaf, by the way, would be the foreskin," Eames said, and gave his hand a light, quick jerk.

Eames was a smug, smug, bastard.

Arthur groaned and fumbled at the button and zip of his jeans.

"Now where was I?" Eames mused. Smugly. "Ah, yes. The sorcerer put a horrible curse on this beautiful, angelic young man."

"The Penis," Arthur said, a little too loud, pushing his jeans down just enough to pull his cock out of his briefs. He could feel his own direct touch. And he could still feel Eames's hand around him. "Shit," he breathed, shuddering.

"Yes, Arthur. The Penis. And it was indeed shit," Eames's mouth quirked up. His eyes on Arthur were warm, amused. His hand moved, up and down, slow and lazy. "For years our poor hero was lost in darkness."

Arthur frowned.

"Ah, but we mustn't fret. Because _then_ ," Eames said, softly dramatic, like a bard weaving a tale at the camp fire, "our hero made a brilliant discovery. He discovered he could reach out in dreams. He wasn't alone after all. And that meant he could still spread a bit of joy in the world."

"It's…how I found you," Arthur said, reaching out instinctively to touch Eames's leg, a reassurance he was indeed _found_. His hand ended up on the arm of the chair. "Center point of a forty-six mile radius of dream reports." Arthur couldn't help the bit of pride that crept into his voice.

"And _then_ our tale grows happier still, because our hero met a man. A man with the name of a king. And this man was very clever. And sometimes very grumpy. And sexy, and sweet, _deliciously_ so." Eames smiled. The hand around his cock had stilled, like he'd forgotten. "And something _new,_ something _incredible_ happened to our hero."

"What?" Arthur asked, breathlessly.

"He stopped dreaming." Eames's voice dropped low. "And woke up."

Arthur trembled.

"You may have another name for it, darling," Eames said quietly. His eyes had gone dark, somber, still shining. "But in my _humble_ ignorance, I don't know what to call that but magic."

"Eames," Arthur whispered, moved. He reached for Eames again, and this time both his hands ended up on the arms of the chair. Arthur scowled his frustration. "Damn it. Why can't _I_ touch _you_?"

"Just the penis," Eames said, pointing, as if Arthur wouldn't be able to locate it otherwise. He gave Arthur a rueful look. "It's what I am."

"Okay, then." Arthur frowned determinedly down at Eames's penis. Then he leaned forward and kissed its rosy head. And shuddered at the feel of a mouth on his cock. "Oh, fuck!" He rocked back. "Oh. Fuck. That's weird."

He looked up, caught on the edge of bewildered, aroused laughter, and then he saw Eames's face. His gaze was locked on Arthur, his eyes gone almost black in the shadows. His mouth was open, but he didn't look like he was breathing.

A rush of warmth washed through Arthur, and one corner of his mouth curled up. "Yeah?"

" _Sinta_ , kitten," Eames exhaled. He pushed his cock down, pointing the tip at Arthur's mouth. "Let me see you."

Cancun. Freshman year, naive as hell, Arthur had let himself be talked into the trip for spring break. It would be romantic. He'd meet someone. Or it would be sexy. He'd fuck someone. _Sexily_. The reality was his friends had set him up with a lacrosse player from Notre Dame who'd laughed himself stupid when Arthur was overcome with a bad case of _too much, too soon,_ blinked at the guy's dick, fallen over into a puddle of warm beer, and asked him his major. And then Lacrosse had told the story to all _his_ friends, and wasn't it uplifting to be the source of so much mirth and merriment? Arthur spent the rest of the trip learning which forms of alcohol burned the least when he threw them back up.

So maybe that's why they were back here. Maybe he had something to prove. Arthur wasn't that boy anymore. He was not so very inexperienced anymore. He knew what other men liked about him: he was pretty, he was slim and strong, dark eyes, big hands. And he knew the look of a man who wanted him. He put away the side of himself that was trepidation and let the side of himself that was boldness, hunger, look up into Eames's eyes.

Eames swore. Arthur didn't understand the language, but the meaning was clear.

The music had started again on the dance floor, something that curled around a slow, simple beat. Bass, thumping in time with Arthur's heartbeat, churning like the surf. The doors to their lounge were open wide, Arthur could see the dancers, wave after wave of motion in the pink and purple light.

Arthur put his hand around Eames. "You feel what I feel?" he asked.

Eames pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and bit down as he gave a short, pained nod, and Arthur could actually feel him _throb_ in the pocket of his hand.

And now who felt smug? Arthur wrapped his mouth around Eames's cock.

Eames's hips bucked and Arthur's pushed forward into the feel of his _own mouth_ and _christ_ it was strange and _christ_ what Arthur wouldn't have given to be able to do this to himself when he was a teenager.Young adult. Whatever, because _Eames_ was feeling this, too, every jaw-clenchingly (no, don't clench!) incredible thing Arthur felt.

Arthur had some technique. He'd done research. Solicited feedback. He liked to be _good_ at what he did. So when he took Eames into his mouth he had a plan. For about two seconds. And then there was Eames in his mouth and his hand, and a hand and a mouth on his cock, and confusing really could be _very_ sexy and now there was _foreskin_ and Arthur silently (gruntingly) cursing Eames because he kept thinking of hot buttered rolls and how was he ever going to eat Thanksgiving dinner again without an erection?

But _Eames_ was feeling this, the flat of Arthur's tongue, the pulse of his fist and the press of his thumb, the vibration when he groaned, the pull of suction, the hot breath on wet skin when he panted. They were joined in sensation, and that knowledge made everything Arthur was feeling so much _more_ , when he looked up and saw Eames's rapt, lustful stare, Eames's wet, open mouth, when he saw Eames's fingers digging white-tipped into the arm of the chair.

So in spite of Arthur's best intentions to dazzle Eames with his fellatio skills, to keep them on the edge of orgasm, _together_ , when Arthur's bottom teeth caught skin, Eames made a helpless _sound_ and Arthur just _came._ Untouched, still feeling the heat of Eames's gaze and the heat of his own mouth, he squeezed his eyes shut and groaned through his bared teeth and pulsed himself empty onto the red shag carpet.

"Hnn," he managed, after a few deep gulps of breath. "Oh my god. I _knew_ I was good at that! I _knew_ it!"

There was a rumble of laughter from Eames's chair, the soft creak of springs, and a glittery little palm tree appeared under Arthur's nose.

Arthur reached out for the half-crumpled orange cocktail napkin. His fingers did not touch Eames's. "Thanks," he said, looking up with a sheepish smile as he tucked himself back in his pants.

Eames was slouched down in his chair, beaming back at him, sleepy-eyed, his cheeks still flushed pink. He had one leg tucked under him and his lower body was wrapped in a red and purple print sarong.

"But…wait." Arthur's brows drew down. "I'm sorry I…I wasn't _finished_."

"No?" Eames's smile widened. "Because I saw a _spectacular_ finish, darling. But if you want to go again—"

"I mean with you," Arthur pouted. "You didn't…" He waved a hand at Eames and lowered his voice. "You know. Did you?" Had Arthur actually _missed_ it?

"Can't."

" _What_?"

Eames winced. "Perhaps I should have mentioned that specifically?"

"I can't _touch you_ and you can't _come?_ " shouted Arthur as he rose to his feet, completely indignant. "What kind of…penis magic is that? That's _terrible_ penis magic."

"Oh, pet. It's the only magic I have. And I've quite recently, mere moments ago, in fact, seen it do wonderful things."

"I wanted to…I wanted _you_ to…" Arthur scowled. The hazy heat of his own orgasm was still a soft buzz in his lower belly, and it was supposed to be _shared,_ damn it, that had been the whole _point_ and Arthur felt a little betrayed now. "It's not fair."

"But I'm so happy, Arthur. Don't be cross. I like to please," Eames said softly. "And that's more than I was meant to have, I think, so I'm grateful." He smiled, coaxing. "And I'm ever so grateful you've allowed me to please _you_ , my sweet."

Arthur sighed and took a moment to drag the overstuffed chair opposite Eames's closer, so that when he sat down his knee was near Eames's and he could lean forward and rest his hand on the arm of Eames's chair.

Eames's eyes crinkled happily, and he shifted his arm so that his fingertips were close to Arthur's, with only an inch of purple velour between them.

"What do you mean, more than you were meant to have?" Arthur asked.

"The curse. I couldn't have been meant to dream. But I think…" Eames's gaze drifted off into memory for a moment, "I think the sorcerer _liked_ me. Bit of sympathy, perhaps?"

"But he cursed you."

"Well, a deal's a deal, isn't it?" Eames shrugged. "My memory of the event itself is…a bit hazy." Eames's face went soft and expressionless. "And not entirely pleasant."

"They say…you stole something," Arthur said carefully, not wanting to chase away Eames's…should he think of it as a sympathetic afterglow? But he was unable to curb his curiosity. His fascination. He let his fingertips rub into the fabric of the chair, the way he would give Eames's hand a soothing touch if he could. "From the Earl."

"Is that what they say?" Eames's smile had a tinge of bitterness. "I stole nothing."

"Then what pissed him off so much? What was his fucking _problem_? That he would do this to you? Go to so much trouble?"

"Such machinations trouble those who can afford them very little," Eames said wryly.

"Are you not telling me because you…can't? Or because you don't want to?"

Eames sighed. "Does it really matter anymore?"

"It does to me. If there's some…penis magic that can send me back in time, I'd like to know the details of why I'm strangling the man."

Eames huffed a little laugh and gave Arthur an odd look. "You're so certain I didn't deserve to be cursed?"

"I heard a very engaging story about how you're a delightful man who's never done anything wrong," Arthur said, deadpan.

Eames's laugh was full this time, the approving twinkle back in his eye. But both faded and he looked off into the distance for several moments before he said, simply, "Robert."

"Who is Robert?"

"Robert is…" Eames shook his head. " _Was_ the Earl's son. I made him my lover."

"Oh," Arthur said, and his hand twitched back from Eames's. His chest had tightened unexpectedly.

Eames glanced down at the new distance between their fingers.

Arthur cleared his throat. "And…what happened to him? Robert?"

Eames shrugged, but it was a tight shrug, not easy. "I know only what I see in dreams. No one has dreamt me such information." His eyes softened, warmed as they settled back on Arthur, and the tension seemed to drain from his shoulders. "As no one had ever dreamt of my maps. Until you. To know that they at least are not passed into nothingness. I thank you for that. So very much...my beautiful Arthur."

Arthur swallowed hard, not certain what to say. "Do you know what's happening? Up…up top? With the Penis?"

Eames's brow furrowed softly. He shook his head. "Just that I feel…change. I _want_. I feel _restless_. Like something is going to happen. Something _more_." He glanced at Arthur as if for confirmation.

The lounge was wrapped in silence again. The doors to the dance floor were still open, but the music had stopped and the room was empty. And Arthur wished he had more answers but since he didn't he just said, quietly, "I'm sorry I didn't dance with you."

"Next time." Eames smiled, brightening. "I can teach you if you don't know the moves."

 

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This, I have decided, is my proudest moment as a fic writer:  
>  _Eames swirled his hand up into a lazy wave and shrugged. "Penis magic."_
> 
> Thank you, nolaespoir! Thank you, callie4180! <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames may have penis magic, but Arthur has a project binder.

Arthur wasn't sure if he was experiencing some weird cosmic one-with-everything afterglow from the previous night's dream or if it was simply his natural determination reasserting itself, but he awoke with a renewed sense of purpose. Even his senses felt sharpened, attuned to the sweet petrichor smell of still-wet sandy soil, the sunlit glint on beads of rainwater huddled in between the quills of scrubby little evergreens, and the leaky balloon squeals of gulls riding the wind from the ocean.

Fine, so maybe Arthur would never publish a paper in the _Journal of Archaeological Science_ after all. Maybe his dream-centric methodology lacked credibility in the scientific community. Maybe his newfound awareness of penis magic would never propel him into Dominick Cobb's open, academically-awed embrace.

None of that mattered, because since last night's dream, Arthur had a mission, and that mission was to save the Penis of Eames.

It wasn't as though, enticing as the thought was, Arthur believed he was some kind of Chosen One. The Penis had always affected everyone's dreams. These newly-amplified nighttime escapades were unlikely to be Arthur's experience alone, no matter how profoundly personal the dreams felt. Eames had said himself that he liked to please—and Arthur's own dream data proved that Eames had pleased everyone, thousands of people, for miles and miles, for years and years.

Even before the Penis.

( _I made him my lover._ )

But jealousy had no place in Arthur's mission.

Because Arthur was the only one could help Eames, and so he was thereby appointing himself the Chosen One. It was Arthur who was Project Director on this site. Arthur who was in a unique position to research this phenomenon. To take any and all action possible to protect the Penis. Arthur who had the knowledge, the resources.

Of course, to save the Penis, first Arthur had to understand what was happening to the Penis. He needed data. And for data, he needed his team _moving_ , so he whipped his people into action far earlier than made anyone but Arthur happy. Grumbled curses (mostly Ariadne's) and coffee spilled out onto the ground as Arthur clapped and snapped and barked out orders with the sort of driven, palm-tingling clarity that made him feel _alive_.

"And last night's seismic readings?" Arthur asked Jayne. His pen tip hovered over his project Moleskine, ready for notes. Kiprono and his two techs had already been dispatched for the Penis's safety check, and Yusuf had sent Tadashi along with them for another sample of the Penis's emissions.

Jayne grimaced. "Yeah, uh, about that. No can do."

Arthur gave her an incredulous look. "You are _not_ telling me we don't have data from last night."

"That storm fucked my gear, man." Jayne flung her hands out helplessly, shook her halo of white hair, so she looked like a harassed dandelion. "Look, for the kind of data you're talking about tracking now, I'll need new equipment anyway. What I've recorded so far just doesn't make any _sense_. S waves with no P waves? And the surface waves _smaller_ —"

"Okay, okay." Arthur held up a hand. "Go to town and get whatever you need. Just get it quickly."

"You sure? Quickly plus Mombasa might equal _real_ expensive."

Arthur leveled a cool look at her. It wasn't like he would ever be getting another project grant anyway. He may as well make this one count. "I said whatever you need."

Jayne's eyebrows twitched up. "You got it."

"So did anyone _feel_ anything like tremors last night?" Arthur sighed.

Ariadne gave him an odd look. "Who could tell?"

"Right," Arthur frowned. Who could tell because…everyone was dreaming? He drew a little letter E with tidy serifs in his notebook so it would look like his attention was on his notes instead of the image of Eames visiting one of Ariadne's dreams. Or Yusuf's. Or that field tech who wore the t-shirt that looked like a bacon.  "Of course."

"Anything else for the shopping list before I head out?" asked Jayne.

"Yes, actually," Yusuf said. Ariadne was leaning back with her head against his chest, and she made a sound of complaint as he pushed her gently away. "We really should do another survey—even if it's informal—about the dreams. Don't you think, Arthur? I can come along and ask around whilst you're gathering your machinery."

Arthur's jaw tightened. He was a professional, so of _course_ he wanted detailed, graphic data on everyone else's thunder-rumbled dreams as soon as possible. Of _course_ he wanted to hear about all the creative solutions Eames had come up with for the no-touching-except-my-magic-dick situation. Dream data collection was in fact already on Arthur's to do list. Just more toward the bottom. "I don't want this to take all day," he scowled.

"Well, if it gives you a head start on your reports or whatever," Jayne said, "I, for one, am happy to be rid of them. My girlfriend's in fucking Dubrovnik and the batteries in Hermione's Wand kept running down."

Arthur blinked.

Ariadne snorted a laugh, slightly bitter. "Well, I wasn't happy about it. I thought it was just me at first, you know? Maybe I was the one who was," she glanced at Yusuf a little uncertainly, "broken."

Yusuf frowned and wrapped her up in a hug. "What? I wish you'd told me that, particle."

"Well, whatever," she mumbled into his shirt. "You were in Mombasa. And I figured it out."

"So." Arthur cleared his throat, trying to sound calm, like his mind wasn't haring off through the underbrush, because it sounded like…. "You want to go back, Yusuf. To, um, confirm."

"Exactly," Yusuf nodded. "That it's not as localized a phenomenon as the tremors. That the dreams have stopped for everyone."

"Yes. You should absolutely do that. Check that the dreams have _stopped_. For everyone."

Everyone except Arthur.

Which would mean Arthur _was_ chosen.

His dreams. His Penis. His Eames.

Arthur snapped his notebook shut and slapped it against his palm, so hard it stung. "Let's go!"

 

***

 

"What's gotten into you today, Arthur?"

Ariadne joined Arthur as he left camp, walking out to the site. She had her sketchbook clutched in one hand and a camera dangling from her wrist by its strap, ready to update their visual records of the testicles.

Arthur raised his eyes to the shimmer of sunlight striking water at the tip of the Penis. It was really sort of…beautiful. "I'm not sure you'd want to know," he smirked, although knowing Ariadne she would definitely want to know exactly what had gotten into him. In detail. With pictures. But for the moment those details were just for Arthur.

"Seriously, you've gone all…drum major this morning. All you need is a big baton."

Arthur could almost hear Eames's gleefully indrawn breath of imminent innuendo. "My high school drum major used a whistle," he offered mildly as he stepped over a tuft of spiky grass.

"Oh my god, you actually were in the marching band." Ariadne snickered. "Of course you were."

"I played the trumpet. Trumpets are cool."

"Big fuzzy hats are not cool."

"We had cavalier hats. Also, I developed a very adaptable embouchure," Arthur glanced up at the Penis again and smiled smugly. "It's come in handy."

"Hats with big feathers aren't cool, either, Arthur. And don't bother trying to distract me with your adaptable embouchure when I know you'd never adapt it to the likes of me. Listen, did you really not feel the ground shaking last night? I mean, with all that thunder, it was really fucking…shaking."

Arthur dragged his boot heel through a clod of dirt on his next step. It burst open in an enthusiastic little explosion of orange-sand granules, like it had been waiting for release. "I did. Of course I did. It was shaking."

"Bullshit. I saw that look on your face. You slept through it all the night before last, too. Don't think I didn't notice. And you are not a sound sleeper. In Cahuachi you woke up every time I turned over on my cot."

"Because I was being vigilant."

"For what?"

"Looters."

"In our barracks?"

"Fine, I was trying to be gentlemanly." Arthur shoved her shoulder so she had to take a big, weaving step to recover her gait. "But it was because you snored."

Ariadne shoved him back. "I did not! And even if I did it would obviously have been a delicate and charming snore that would only have kept you up if you weren't a sound sleeper! So, ha! Hoist with your own petard! You've—"

One of Kiprono's safety inspection techs hurtled over the last rise before the job site. "We're on it!" she shouted at Arthur earnestly over her shoulder as she sprinted back toward camp.

"Oh, fuck," said Ariadne.

Arthur and Ariadne exchanged wide-eyed looks and picked up their pace. When they reached the peak of the little hill before the terrain dipped back down to the base of the cliff, they saw what had Kiprono's tech on the move.

Arthur blew out a hard breath.

"So I'm going to go with…there were definitely more tremors last night," Ariadne said, lips pursed.

The crack in the side of the cliff was, relative to the Penis, at least, not all that wide at the base, roughly three feet across. It ran high, though, following the curve of the left testicle until it tapered to a point about, by Arthur's estimation, thirty feet up.

Kiprono jogged over to meet them. "Sarah's gone back for proper equipment. But Rashid poked his head in. He said—" He motioned to one of the techs clustered together muttering and casting dubious glances at the crack. "Hey, Rashid, _njoo hapa_!"

The tall, rangy, scraggly-goateed young man loped over in response to the summons and stood next to Ariadne. Her head was roughly at the height of his armpit. A climbing helmet and headlamp dangled from his fingers.

Kiprono pointed at the crack. "Tell Arthur what you saw in there."

"Not much," Rashid shrugged. "Fifteen, twenty meters to more rock. Gets smaller, but the end is flat, like a slice." He held his hand perpendicular to the ground to demonstrate.

"You didn't go in?"

Rashid gave Arthur an are-you-crazy look. "No way."

"Is it the only one? Is there any other damage?" Arthur asked tightly.

"Some of the other fissures may have grown, we're checking. But nothing else obvious." Kiprono squinted up at the Penis, rubbing the back of his neck. "I sent some of the shovel bums around the balls and Gina and a few others over there are scanning the cliff section by section with binoculars. Where's Jayne? She'll have something to say."

"Fuck." Arthur dragged his fingers through his hair, forcing a few deep breaths. Whatever was happening to the Penis, it was escalating. Quickly. "She's gone off to town. _Fuck_."

"Maybe there's something good in there," Ariadne suggested. "Pirate treasure! The Holy Grail. Or the lost Ark of the Covenant."

Arthur was just about to give her a weak smile in acknowledgment of the effort at humor when Rashid, getting in the spirit of the thing, said in a low, spooky voice, "Or Eames's hidden burial chamber."

The joke was a truck driven over Arthur's chest.

Ariadne's chuckle cut off as she glanced up. Her eyes went wide. "Arthur?"

" _Give_ —" Arthur wheezed, and lunged for Rashid's hand, snatching away his helmet and lamp. He ran flat out.

A blur of orange sand and stone and then he was plunged into darkness. His shoulders scraped rough walls on each side as he crammed on his headgear, fumbled for the lamp switch. Stupid, this was stupid, he knew this was stupid, but—

"Eames!" he shouted as he hit the flat wall Rashid had seen. The passage curved, twisted, narrow, tight. Arthur turned sideways. Sucked himself in. Shoved past a jagged vertical ridge. Heard fabric rip. The haloed light from his headlamp bobbed and flitted like a ghost across the stone as he turned his head back and forth. "Eames!"

He pushed forward, twisting, breathing fast and loud, until there was nowhere left to go. His hands pawed at, slid roughly over rock, seeking the continuation of the passage, because _where was Eames_? But it was a dead end. Stone all around him except the way he'd come. Cursing, Arthur finally he gave in, slid down with the smooth, damp stone against his back and sat on the slanted floor. Just a crack, then. He cursed again. And then he giggled. And then he wondered if he was going crazy. Every sound echoed in the little round nook where the crack ended. It was just wide enough here for him to spread his elbows. He put his head back against the wall and listened to the trickling sounds of water, counting his breaths until he felt he could stand again.

His lamp was on, but Arthur made his way back out mostly by feel, and emerged into the (too bright, too bright) sunlight again clammy-skinned, his hands shaking.

"What the _fuck_ , Arthur?" Ariadne's voice came out shrill. Arthur had never heard Ariadne sound shrill.

He looked up at her face…up, because he had apparently pitched forward, hands on his knees, in case he was going to throw up. "Sorry," he panted.

Ariadne's hand was white around her walkie-talkie. "You! Christ! Fucking shitting—you could have—drop-offs or _lost_ or another fucking _quake_ or—and you KNOW THAT!"

"I know that," Arthur nodded. He flipped Rashid's helmet off his head and onto the ground. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"What were you thinking? You know how dangerous—"

"I know." What _had_ he been thinking? Eames would be standing there, arms open? Or Arthur would kiss his mummified body back to life like some necrophiliac Prince Charming? Wrap his bones up in his shirt and bring them home? Keep a femur to hold on to while he dreamed? That Eames's femur belonged to Arthur and Arthur should be the first one to touch it? And Ariadne always said Arthur freaked out and he said he _did not_ but that was clearly a freak-out he'd just had and…what even was that? "I need to…" he murmured, and then just sat down in the dirt and stared at Ariadne's work boots—even her feet looked angry, silver eyelets of her boots glaring up at him.

Finally she sat down, too. Kiprono and the other techs had scattered back, giving them a wide berth and watching them out of the sides of their eyes.

Ariadne sighed. "So what did you see?"

"Nothing. It's just…a crack."

"No Ark, then."

Arthur huffed a half-laugh. "Nope. No giant boulder. No snakes, at least."

"Well, I'm glad you didn't get your stupid face melted off."

"Ark." Arthur jerked his head, focusing. "Water."

"You need some—"

"No, I _heard_ water." Arthur licked his lips (which were rather dry, actually) as he tried to remember, turns, distance. "Yeah. I think where the crack tapered off was just behind the testicles. And I heard _water_."

"What, like a spring?"

"Or…I don't know, a well?"

Ariadne snorted. "Well."

"Yeah. A well."

"No, I mean _well_. So that water's probably being drawn up through the shaft from a well in the testicles? Whoever made this thing was conceptually consistent."

Arthur frowned up at the Penis. The events of the last few days did suggest the possibility of some sort of imminent climax. And what would that mean? For the Penis itself, perhaps a release would ease the stress on the structure. Or perhaps the Penis would be unable to withstand the pressure. Break apart. Crumble into nothing but dead stone. And what would that mean for Eames?

"I don't want anyone else going in there," Arthur said sharply. "It's not safe."

Ariadne made an incredulous sound. " _Now_ you're worried about safety?" She reached up and grabbed his head, probing his scalp with none-too-gentle fingers. "Did you hit your head in there?"

Bent forward, Arthur stared down at the dirt in between their legs. He took a deep breath. "Ari, there's something I need to tell you."

"About how you're still having the dreams?"

Arthur's eyes shot to Ariadne's. "How did you know that?"

Ariadne folded her hands back in her lap, regarding him speculatively. "I told you. I saw your face earlier, when we were talking about how the dreams had stopped. And that very first night they stopped for all of us—I hadn't thought about it, really, until today—but you said at least the dreams were still happening."

Glad that the crew was still keeping their distance, Arthur nodded confirmation. He dropped his voice lower, in spite of their privacy. "It's true. But…the dreams are different."

"Different how?"

"More, um…intense."

"Okay," Ariadne said slowly. "So what does that mean? Why you?" Her eyes narrowed. "Are you under the Penis's thrall?"

Arthur let out a short breath of laughter. "No. Um, I don't think so." Hell, maybe he was. What if that was part of Eames's magic? But he couldn't think that way. He was feeling things strongly, it was true, but he _had_ to listen to his instincts. "I need…" Arthur reached out impulsively and took Ariadne's hands in his. "Will you trust me, a little while longer? Trust that I'm doing what I think is best for the Penis?"

"As its thrall?"

"As an archaeologist," Arthur said. "And a good one."

Ariadne sighed, squeezed Arthur's hands. "The best. I'm keeping an eye on you, though."

"Good, because…" Arthur looked up at the Penis, and Ariadne's gaze followed his. "That's exactly what I had in mind. I have an idea."

 

***

 

The frogs were singing ebulliently in the settling night air.

Arthur and Ariadne had just finished setting up their equipment—a lightweight but sturdy camp bed, a couple chairs, syringes, a hand towel, clipboards, two tripod-mounted video cameras, and Ariadne's iPhone—in the field office tent when Yusuf came in. His shirt was still tinted orange with road dust from his drive to and from Mombasa.

"I love your faith in me, Arthur," he proclaimed in a tone that was ripe and round with sarcasm, "thinking that immediately upon my return from a long, tiring day's journey I can simply whip up a _very specific_ sleeping potion from, oh, just whatever I can find lying about camp. I'm a chemist, not a magician."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "So do you have it?"

"Of course I have it." Yusuf's face split into a wide, white grin. He brought forth a vial of some sort of clear liquid from behind his back with a flourish. "Please acknowledge my magicianship."

"Yusuf, you are my Merlin," Arthur acknowledged dutifully. He reached out for the vial, turned it in his hand. "REM sleep right away?"

"Just as you decreed. But it won't be difficult for you to wake."

"And this is enough for how many sessions?"

"Enough for twenty, thirty, if you need it."

"Huh," Arthur grunted. He handed the vial back to Yusuf and then rubbed his fingertips into his palm where the cool sensation of glass lingered. He was excited. He was nervous. "We'll see how it goes. Jayne's standing by?" Arthur looked to Ariadne for confirmation.

"Yep. She's got her new gadgets all set up. We synchronized our watches and everything." She waggled her iPhone at Arthur.

"But she doesn't know about my dreams."

"No, just us, like we agreed. I told her this extra testing was because you were all uptight about the seismic readings after last night." Ariadne smirked. "She didn't find that difficult to believe."

"Good," Arthur nodded. "Okay. Well. We should get started."

While Yusuf readied a syringe of his sleep potion, Arthur toed his shoes off, stripped out of his jeans and settled himself onto the metal and canvas camp bed in his boxers and t-shirt, covering himself up with a sheet. He pulled a bottle of water, his notebook and pen, and the small binder of materials he'd prepared earlier in the day within arm's reach, and took a sheet of paper out of the binder. Studied it, even though he'd probably already spent at least an hour staring at it throughout the afternoon. He needed to remember, when he was in the dream.

"Ready?" Ariadne asked.

Arthur sighed. He'd put off this last item long enough. "There's…one more thing you should know. If you're going to be here watching."

"Being here watching was kind of the point, right?"

"Right, but I may, um." Arthur looked up at the lantern-lit canvas ceiling.

"What?"

"Have an orgasm."

Yusuf froze where he was, alcohol-soaked swab pinched between his fingers.

"Or maybe more than one

"Oh." Ariadne picked up the towel folded on Arthur's desk. "So that's what this is here for. Anything you want after? Cigarette? Protein bar? Sometimes Yusuf likes a sandwich."

"A towel will be fine," Arthur said stiffly. His face was hot. "Look, it's not like I _want_ you to watch _that_ particular part—"

"Of course not!" Ariadne lobbed the towel at him. "It's for science!"

"It _is_ for science." Arthur glared. "And thank you for making this even more mortifying."

"What's a little death between friends?" Yusuf grinned, clicking into gear again with a bemused shake of his head.

"I hate you both."

"I love my job," Ariadne beamed.

"And on that note, I'm ready to get to work." And Arthur did feel just a little less nervous after their teasing, after all. It helped him settle his mind as he fixed his eyes on his printout. On the portrait of a beautiful young man with ivory skin, a sweep of ink-dark hair, and large, lazy-lidded eyes the color of a clear spring sky.

Yusuf tied a rubber tourniquet around Arthur’s upper arm and readied his needle.

"Are we recording?" Arthur asked.

"Recording," confirmed Ariadne, switching into business mode just light the red light on her camera. "Clock is running."

"Go to sleep, Arthur," Yusuf said, and pushed the plunger.

A curtain of darkness drifted down over Arthur's eyes.

***

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur's Penis Dream experiments begin.

**Experiment A: Emotional Stimulus**

A pair of bluebirds cavorted on the sweet, warm breeze, twittering merrily at each other. When they landed at last on the bough of an apple tree, one of the apples, jostled loose, fell into Arthur's hand. He smiled, tucked his clipboard under one arm, and buffed the fruit on his lab coat lapel until its skin gleamed rose-red.

Beyond a rounded green hilltop, a rhythmic sound, a cantering cadence on soft earth, heralded the appearance of a white charger. And atop, the figure of a man. The horse reared, whinnied, and galloped down the hill, churning the turf beneath its hooves. Its rider pulled the beast up short in front of the apple tree and grinned down at Arthur.

"Darling."

"Magnificent animal," Arthur said, eyes traveling along the length of Eames's thigh. Tight breeches, laced leather boots, a hilted sword at his hip.

"His name's Freyr." Eames leaned forward to rub Freyr's white neck. The horse nickered and tossed its head.

"Where did you get a horse?"

"I coaxed him away from the castle stables." Eames swung himself down, boots landing softly in the thick grass, and winked at Arthur. "I'm a dab hand at coaxing."

Arthur held out his apple for Freyr, who bit it in half and started crunching happily. "There's a castle?"

"Of course. All fairy tales have castles, don't they?" Eames nodded over his shoulder in the direction from which he’d come. Beyond the hilltop, blue-tiled castle spires and crenelated white stone towers reached skyward, flags fluttering.

"I don't know. Is this a fairy tale?" Arthur turned around, inspecting the landscape further. A low stone wall snaked through a rolling meadow beyond the grove of apple trees, and a little white-walled, thatched house was nestled in a sunny patch of green. A long-eared rabbit hopped across the grass, nose twitching. It did look like some sort of fairy tale place. Just the sort of place where a beautiful, blue-eyed, raven-haired, snow-skinned boy might be courted by his Prince Charming. Arthur glanced down at the portrait on his clipboard and sniffed unhappily at his subconscious. "I thought it was England."

"England?" Eames's laugh sounded wistful to Arthur. "If this is England, it's changed a bit for the better since I was last here."

"Since you were here with Robert Fisher," Arthur prompted, reluctantly picking up the script of his experiment. He felt a waft of satisfaction at the idea that the England that Eames had shared with Robert Fisher had not been _completely_ idyllic. And then wave of guilt on its heels. Eames had died for this boy. More or less.

Eames darted him an odd look. "Amongst one or two other people, yes."

Arthur bit his lip. The next part was tricky. He'd thought it best to get the topic of Robert Fisher, the emotional response portion of the experiment, out of the way quickly. But now, looking at Eames, the question he'd intended to ask was stuck in his throat like a bit of apple peel.

Eames's smile twitched, perhaps a little deliberately, back into place. "But you're the dreamer, pet. If you say it's England, so it is."

"Fine. Then it's England."

"Does that make you the king, Arthur?" Eames drawled his name out meaningfully. "Perhaps it's Avalon."

Arthur huffed. "I'm not the king."

"But you _are_ the one who pulled the sword from the stone, aren't you?" Eames smirked, pointing at his crotch, presumably in case Arthur didn't catch on to his subtle _sword_ metaphor. "Would you like to wield it?"

And immediately, Arthur was tempted to just throw his clipboard aside. Eames was ridiculous, but his eyes were warm, and his fawn-colored breeches were very tight, and his skin had a slight gleam that looked like it would taste salty.

With determination, Arthur directed his gaze to his notes. "Manual stimulation comes later on the agenda," he informed Eames crisply. "After the questions."

"There's an agenda?"

"I…made some plans for  us." Arthur raised his chin. "Isn't it always nice to have a schedule?"

"Oh, very nice, indeed. It suits this romantic landscape you've dreamt for us--England, that is--perfectly. As does, might I mention, your attire."

Arthur smoothed down his lab coat and nodded. "Thank you."

Eames's eyes were curiously amused. "Manual stimulation, was it?"

"You can call it _wielding_ if you want," Arthur allowed, a playful smile quirking his mouth.

"As always, _mi rey_ , I very much do want." Eames laughed and patted the horse's neck. "Go on home, now, Freyr, lad. Your master and I need some private time."

The horse gave Eames's sleeve an understanding nuzzle before it turned and trotted back up the hill. The two bluebirds fluttered away after it, weaving around each other in flight.

"So these questions you have on our agenda...are they sexy questions?" Eames grinned. He loosened his sword belt and settled himself under the shade of the apple tree, back to its gnarled trunk, stretching out his legs lazily. "Will I get to answer things like _a rough highwayman_ or _with honey_ or _in the vicarage_?"

"It's not a game of Clue." Arthur said drily, then backtracked and raised an eyebrow. "A rough highwayman?"

"I thought we might be sharing fantasies." Eames's smile was unconvincingly guileless. "Can we add that to the agenda? Arthur. Under the apple tree. With my magic penis. It's a game of _sexy_ Clue."

"How do you even know about Clue?"

Eames craned his neck like he was trying to get a peek at Arthur's notes. "Was that one of your official questions? Because I couldn't help but notice said question was not about my penis, and I'd hate to see you waste questions on trivial matters."

"You think I only get a limited number?" Arthur raised the clipboard to hide his smile. "The king gets as many question as he likes."

"Oh, I know how we should play!" Eames perked up like a puppy being shown a ball. "Your questions work like wishes. I'll grant you three if you rub me the right way," Eames's grin turned wicked. "But knowing you and your special sword-pulling skills, my liege, you'll earn at least…six. If you'd like to skip ahead to the wielding, that is."

Arthur felt warmth blooming in his chest, spreading quickly downward. Damn it, he was supposed to be researching, not flirting. But the sunlight was dappling Eames's hair and the grass looked like it would be soft under Arthur's knees and if he just set the clipboard aside for a little while, they might have time to, very quickly….

But they didn't have time, did they? The Penis might not have much time at all. Eames was right--everything else was trivial. And now Arthur had gone all off-script.

"Fuck, Eames. How do you do this to me?" Arthur blew a hot breath of frustration out on the breeze. "How do you make me want you so much I can't even think?"

"I would ask you the same question in return." Eames's eyelids drifted down, and up again, a slow, lazy blink. "If the rules allow it."

"No," Arthur said, suddenly sharp. "Eames, this isn't a game."

Eames sat up, a faint line of concern creasing his forehead. "All right, darling, I'm—"

An almost deafening chime from the castle bells rang out over Eames's words, and rang, and rang, across the rolling hills.

 

***

 

Arthur half-slapped Ariadne's iPhone away from his ear. "Fuck! Shut it off."

"Too loud?" Ariadne poked at the screen and the ringing stopped. "We wanted to be sure it would wake you up. How did it go?"

"It didn't." Arthur rubbed his eyes and grunted displeasure. It had, in fact, been a complete failure. Arthur hadn't checked off a single questionnaire item. He hadn't forced the required emotional stimulus. He'd barely mentioned Robert Fisher. "There wasn't enough time. Not with Eames being all…" _Playful. Gorgeous. Ridiculous. Charming._ Arthur waved his hand.  "Eames."

Ariadne raised her eyebrows. "I see."

Arthur flushed. "Any seismic activity?"

"I didn't feel anything."

"Nope," Yusuf said from behind the cameras.

"So we try again." Ariadne pointed at the notebook beside Arthur's cot. "For now, write."

"Yeah," Arthur nodded, reaching for his pen. He wouldn't forget an Eames dream--the details of the ones before were still achingly clear--but he had agreed that the experimental dreams should be documented.

As he scribbled away, Yusuf came over to peer at him. "How are you feeling? Any obvious side effects from the compound?"

"Like what?" Arthur paused his pen mid-sentence for a suspicious glare. "You didn't mention any possible side effects."

"There shouldn't be any." Yusuf shrugged, unconcerned. "But you never know."

"Well, thanks for the heads up."

Yusuf sketched him a cheerful salute.

Arthur allowed himself a moment to glower before he returned pen to paper, moving on. "I want to double the time for the next dream. Do you need to adjust the dosage?"

"Probably. Give me a moment."

Arthur finished his notes and set the notebook aside, picking up his cheat sheet again. He frowned at the picture of Robert Fisher, and then folded the page in half so he wouldn't have to look at Fisher's handsome-pretty, big-eyed face. No more lush, green, romantic, fucking Snow White shit. He needed to stay focused in the next dream on the task at hand. There was work to do.

The lab coat was a start--he hadn't dreamed himself into it on purpose, but his subconscious at least had the right idea there. And if he was going to try to dream anything on purpose, he was going to aim higher—he needed a whole laboratory. Something clinical, something decidedly non-sexy.

"I'm ready to go again," he announced, squeezing his eyes shut. _Stainless steel._ _Hair nets. Disinfectant_.

Yusuf readied the next syringe.

 

***

 

**Experiment A Conclusion: Incomplete.**

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur. In a dream. With a giant penis (and a clipboard).

****Experiment B: Questionnaire** **

The doors leading off the great hallway were all the same. Grand, tall, mahogany things that looked like they would creak ominously when opened in the eerie, cavernous silence. Arthur padded across the harlequin-patterned marble tile in his soft-soled shoes and his—he looked down and frowned. Apparently, in his purple tuxedo and bow tie.

Great. Really clinical. Well done.

"Eames?" he whispered.

The only response was a soft echo off the high ceilings. Arthur gripped his clipboard more tightly and picked one of the tall doors at random, turning the handle. It opened with...yep...an ominous creak.

"Eames," he hissed into the darkened room.

"Hello, there," purred a throaty voice from behind him.

Arthur started, whirled, and found himself looking into thick-lashed, smoky eyes. A woman, a 1940s femme fatale sort of beauty, with cherry-red lips, a fall of sleek, dark hair, and a red silk dress that clung.

"Um," Arthur said.

"Are you lost?" she asked archly, waving a black lacquer cigarette holder in one gloved hand so that a curl of smoke punctuated the question.

"I'm…looking for a friend."

The woman smiled, a slash of white teeth, and then the pink tip of her tongue touched the corner of her open mouth. "Me, too." Her voice was soft and intimate, and she took a step closer to Arthur. "I don't want to be all alone here. It's not safe."

"Not safe?" Arthur frowned.

"But now neither of us has to be alone," she murmured, taking another step in. "Do we?"

"I'm not alone." Arthur took a step backwards, away from the woman's predatory eyes and into the dark beyond the open door. "I'm looking for my friend."

"I could be your friend." The woman stepped in again. "I can be very friendly."

Arthur stepped back and raised his clipboard like a shield. "I only want to find—"

The woman pulled the door closed behind them, plunging the room into pitch darkness.

"—Eames!" Arthur squeaked.

And then the room lit, and it was Eames standing in front of him, a black lacquer cigarette holder between his fingers. His body was once again decidedly masculine, and he was laughing so hard his cheeks were almost as red with as his silk suit. "Oh, Arthur, your face."

"What the hell?!" Arthur spluttered. Without thinking, he aimed a whack with his clipboard at Eames's shoulder, but the blow swung wide.

"A lot of people dream about Miss Scarlet. _That_ is how I know about Clue," Eames wiped moisture from the corner of his eye as his giggles died down. "I'm sorry, darling, I couldn't resist." He grinned slyly, preening. "But you like me better _this_ way, yeah?"

"Mister Scarlet?" Arthur cocked an eyebrow.

"Professor." Eames swept him a bow.

Arthur looked down at one of his purple sleeves and groaned in realization. "Oh, shit. I'm Professor Plum."

"The color of royalty, might I point out. I did bring along my sword, just in case it's needed, your majesticness." Eames caught his tongue between his teeth and waggled his hips at Arthur.

"This still is _not_ a game," Arthur scowled. "Well, I mean…it is a game. But we aren't playing it."

"Not even _sexy_ Clue? Your highness. With my sword. In the…what is this?" Eames _hmmed_ and looked around the room they were in--long and wide, with a polished parquetry floor, crystal chandeliers, luxuriously upholstered chairs and sofas, and a grand piano in one corner.  "The ballroom? That's convenient!"

"Eames, I'm serious."

"Right. Serious." Eames nodded. Seriously. And then bounced a little on the toes of his red crocodile-skin shoes, like he was unable to contain his excitement. "But the thing is, darling, I suspect that one of us might be the murderer."

"Someone saw our outfits and died of second-hand embarrassment?"

"Behold!" Eames raised a hand, made some sort of flourish with it, and then he was holding an apple. A ripe, red apple with a large bite mark exposing a chunk of its white flesh. "The murder weapon! It must have been _poisoned_."

"Did you bring that from…" Arthur frowned. "England?"

"From the conservatory."

"What makes you think it's poisoned?"

"The dead bloke I nicked it off of."

Arthur's lip curled in distaste. "There's a dead guy in my dream?"

"See what happens when you don't let us play _sexy_ Clue?" Eames said with a pointed look. He leaned in conspiratorially. "But it's true, what I said. What with all this murder going about, it isn't safe alone. We should stick together. Very close together. I've got your back, Arthur."

"Well, I didn't murder any…dream guy."

"I nevertheless humbly extend the offer to have your delightfully rounded back side." Eames tossed the apple up in the air and winked at Arthur as he caught it. The cigarette holder in his other hand sent another curl of smoke into the air. "Should you be in need of any assistance in that area."

Arthur sighed and narrowed his eyes. "Okay, then."

"Really?" Eames perked. "I like this game!"

"If we're going to play, we're going to play properly. By the rules." Arthur smiled with grim determination and held up his clipboard. "Which means we're going to solve the crime by asking questions."

"Did you write down the bit about the _rough highwayman_ already, because—"

Arthur drew in a bracing breath. "Where is your body?"

"I am only too happy to show you," Eames grinned. With all the panache of a Vegas stage magician he waved his arm. His cigarette holder and suit jacket both vanished, and Eames was already reaching to unbutton his red silk shirt.

"No," Arthur said steadily. "Your actual body. In the real world."

Eames stilled his strip tease, his smile fading. "Whilst I acknowledge that question to be in the general spirit of the game, I think it overlooks something of the _sexy_ element we were recently discussing. Unless your tastes are more…exotic than I had previously supposed."

Arthur grimaced. "It's not like that."

"I'm relieved to hear it."  Eames turned the apple around in his hand. The bite mark was starting to brown. Eames frowned at it. "Although if you're looking to spice up my current manifestation, I can offer you options."

Arthur drew back, frowning, and waved a hand at Eames's body. "I didn't know you could…do that. "

"Envision alternatives to necrophilia?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Change how you look."

"You've seen it," Eames reminded him, his shirt fabric shimmering from solid red to a red paisley pattern.

"Not your clothes. You. Miss Scarlet."

"Ah, well," Eames's eyes drifted away. "I suppose I didn't want to make a point of it."

"Why not?"

"Because I can look like anyone. Anyone you want." Eames looked at Arthur.

And then he was Yusuf, looking at Arthur.

And then he was Ariadne.

Idris Elba. Professor Saito. Ben Whishaw.

He was Dominick Cobb.

Arthur blinked, sucked in a breath. "Stop!"

"Anyone you want. With magic. In the ballroom," Eames said softly, shifting back to his own face. "Or the billiard room. Or under the apple tree. Who shall do the deed?"

"You," Arthur yelped. He cleared his throat, lowered his voice. "Just. Stay. Yeah, I'm, um, pretty good with the… _you_ option. Actually."

"Yeah?"

Arthur felt himself blushing as Eames's mouth curled into a slow smile. "You don't have to look so smug about it. And put that thing down. It's poisoned."

Eames tossed his apple into the air and caught it again, beaming. "But I'm the fairest of them all!"

"Ben Whishaw was tempting."

"Needs a bit more muscle," Eames said, flexing his upper arms, shoulders, "don't you think?"

Arthur frowned, his eyes moving from the strained silk of Eames's shirt, to the apple in Eames's hand, to the clipboard in his own hand and his list of questions. Robert Fisher's portrait wasn't there on the page in the dream, but Arthur could still see it clearly enough in his mind's eye. It was the question he hadn't written down, hadn't even completely formed. The one designed to test the effect of Arthur's emotional state on the Penis, if there even was a correlation. And finding correlations was what this was _about_ so Arthur needed to stop being a coward about it and just _ask_ —  "Is there someone…" Arthur cleared his throat. "Do you wish that I…could look like…?"

"Not for a moment."

"Not even—"

"Darling. Not for a _moment_."

"Okay," Arthur nodded, dropping his eyes, swallowing down a surge of relief so unexpectedly strong it was embarrassing.  "That's…cool, then."

"But I'm still the fairest."

Arthur's attempt at an aggrieved sigh turned into a huff of laughter. His attempt at an eye roll turned into a slow scan of Eames's body. And his attempt at returning to his questionnaire turned into, "You should take off your pants."

Eames blinked in scandalized surprise. "Why, Professor!"

"Now," said Arthur.

Eames tossed the apple away over his shoulder. It landed with a thunk on the polished parquetry floor, and Eames's pants were gone.  It rolled away under a gold-upholstered settee, and Eames's shirt was unbuttoned, tails brushing his hip bones, framing his cock like stage curtains. And it looked like the performer was ready, apple-rosy and luscious.

Arthur pointed to a red leather chaise lounge. "There."

"I…am rather feeling the need to swoon." Eames spoke lightly, but his cheeks had already flushed. He lay back against the arm of the long chair, one leg stretched out, one thick thigh draped over the side.

Kneeling carefully beside the chaise, Arthur placed his clipboard on the floor. Shoved it underneath the chair, out of sight. He leaned over and blew a puff of air over the tip of Eames's cock. Eames shivered, and Arthur felt the ghost of the breath on his own cock.

"No. No penis sharing this time." Arthur shook his head and curled his palm around Eames's erection. "This is just for you. You said you can feel this."

Eames swallowed. "Oh, yes."

"But you can't touch me," Arthur murmured thoughtfully, stroking with his thumb, "except here."

Eames breathed in slowly as his eyelids lowered over his darkening grey eyes. "Darling, if you only knew how badly—"

"Could you fuck me?" Arthur asked, and squeezed.

"Unh," Eames grunted.

"Because there's something—" Arthur moved his hand, frowned. "Magic lube, please."

Eames's cock slicked under Arthur's palm.

"Thank you." Arthur smiled satisfaction and twisted his fist around Eames's slippery head. "I was saying…there's something regular Clue and sexy Clue have in common."

"Whz?"

Arthur leaned over again, this time so that his mouth was close to Eames's ear, and whispered, "Secret passages."

"Oh, pet." Eames shuddered, half-laughter, half-arousal. "You're so delightfully metaphorical. I think you were born to this."

"Jerking you off?"

Another shuddered squirm of laughter, and Eames's hips jerked back against the leather as Arthur dragged his hand up, slow and tight. "Dreaming. Fuck. Arthur, my thorny petal. You know I can't finish."

"But it feels good."

Eames just squeezed his eyes shut and groaned.

For some reason, even though he could vanish his clothes at will, Eames was still wearing one of his absurd red shoes—the shoe leather was squeaking rhythmically against the settee leather. And Arthur was so hard in his ridiculous purple pants he could barely move. Nor could he contain his joyful, _evil_ grin. Maybe he _was_ born to jerking Eames off, at that.

"And… _who_ is the fairest of them all?" he purred in Eames's ear.

"You," Eames panted. His heel dug into leather and his back arched. "You bastard. Are. Oh, this is…not fair. At all."

"Eames. In the secret passage." Arthur matched the roughness of his voice with the movement of his hand. "Are you thinking about how it would feel?"

"Yes." Eames's eyes flew open, grey and wide, laughing and desperate at the same time. "Anything you want. Always. It's you and I'm so lucky. I'm so lucky it was you."

Arthur rocked on his knees, awash in arousal and delight at the way Eames's throat was flushed, the way he needed to keep his mouth open for gulps of air. "Me?"

"You that woke me. First touched me. That you're touching me still."

"Well, maybe not the first, but definitely the fairest," Arthur grinned, smug.

Eames's brow furrowed. He blinked at Arthur. "What...did you say?"

From outside the ballroom, a shocking scream ripped through the hallway.

 

***

 

_"It's dying down."_

"Shit," Arthur said, jerking awake.

There was a prominent bulge beneath his sheet at the juncture of his thighs, at which both Ariadne and Yusuf were very deliberately _not_ looking.

"Hey, Arthur," Ariadne said, brightly casual.

Arthur rucked up his sheet around his hips. "Did you scream?"

Ariadne looked at him, then. Planted her hands on her hips and snorted. "Did I _scream_?"

"Or…shout, or…" Arthur twisted away, curling in on himself. His dick was _aching_. "Shit."

"I may have screamed," Yusuf offered, waving a hand in the direction of Arthur's hips. "Just a bit. At that."

"Shut up," Arthur said miserably. "I warned you."

Ariadne shrugged. "Nothing I haven't seen before."

Yusuf's eyebrows shot up into his curls. "Excuse me?"

"Not for _me_."

"What? When have you seen my…business?"

"That guy from Kolkata?"

"Oh…right." Arthur nodded. Sanjay. Sanjay had been, yeah…a glorious man. He probably still was, somewhere out there. That had been a good week. "That's not helping."

"Sorry!"

Arthur groaned as he reached for his journal. "Seismic activity?"

There was a silence.

Arthur propped himself up on one elbow and frowned. "Was there activity?"

Yusuf and Ariadne exchanged a quick glance before Ariadne answered. "Just before you woke up."

"I didn't feel--shit, I never do, though. How bad was it?" He looked around the tent. Nothing seemed out of place or especially _shaken_ -looking.

"Big truck," Yusuf offered.

Ariadne shot him a glare. "Nothing near abort level."

"The Penis--"

"Yeah," Ariadne interrupted, raising her walkie-talkie, pressing the call button. "Report?"

The walkie-talkie crackled back at her before Tadashi's voice came on. "A little bit of dirt slide, nothing more. No other visible impact. All quiet here now."

Arthur breathed a sigh of relief.

"So we keep going, right? You obviously got some kind of, um, result this time," Ariadne prompted.

"Yeah. Well, I...sort of." Arthur huffed as he made his notes. "Not what I was going for. I'm getting…distracted."

Ariadne smirked at Arthur's flagging sheet-tent. "You don't say."

"Shut _up_. I'm trying, okay? Yeah, we keep going."

"Lucid dreaming is tricky business," Yusuf said with a knowing sort of nod. "You're focusing on what you want to take into the dream with you, yes?"

Ariadne looked back and forth between the two of them, frowning slightly. "That's what's on your cheat sheet, right, Arthur?"

"Yeah?"

"Like what sort of stuff?"

"Like my test questions. The proper sequence of the experiments. The limitations."

"Sounds pretty specific, for a dream."

"I thought the more specificity the better."

"Yeah, that makes sense, but…" Ariadne glanced at Yusuf and smirked. "I have an idea that might work better for our obstinate young Arthur, here. You have his next dose ready?"

Yusuf nodded and held up a syringe.

Ariadne strode over and snatched Arthur's cheat sheet from where it was sticking out between his journal pages.

"Hey!"

She held the sheet behind her back and glared at him. "Arthur. Absolutely DO NOT DREAM about your questionnaire. Don't even THINK about it."

Arthur blinked.

"Yusuf," Ariadne nodded firmly. "Do your thing."

 

***

 

****Experiment B Conclusion: Questionnaire incomplete. Manual stimulation achieved. Seismic activity recorded.** **

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One does not simply dream a penis into Mordor.

****Experiment C: Questionnaire** **

Arthur breathed in the solvent smell of dry erase marker as he wrote in careful block letters across the white board. Behind him, the university lecture hall was restless with muffled coughing, shoes scuffing carpet, whispers, fingers tapping laminated desktops. Arthur could feel the students' eyes on him. Bored. Critical. He ignored the feeling, just as he always had assisting in Professor Saito's classroom.

The door at the back of the room groaned open, and there was a mass rustle of fabric and shifting bodies as the students turned en masse to peer at the newcomer.

Arthur didn't bother to look. "Mr. Eames," he said coolly. He shifted down a line with his marker and began writing out his final questions. "You're late."

The door squeaked and banged shut. A murmur of interest ran through the auditorium, followed by the soft pad of footsteps descending the carpeted tiers that led down to Arthur's desk at the front of the auditorium.

"So sorry, kitten," Eames said, voice light but dry, from only a few feet behind Arthur now. A few students tittered at the endearment. Several sighed. "I'm having a difficult time keeping up with you tonight. You keep scampering away."

"It's _Professor_." Arthur turned his best look of cool authority on Eames.

And, oh, just _look_ at him. One hand stuffed in his pocket, affecting a belligerent slouch. School uniform disheveled, grass stains on one knee of his trousers, shirt untucked, striped tie pulled loose. Hair sticking out in all directions. He looked like he'd just rolled down a hill at Hogwarts. Behind him, all the students in their t-shirts and jeans and flip-flops were studying him with unabashed interest.

"Terribly sorry." Eames reached into the pocket of his navy blazer, and pulled out a shiny red apple. He placed it gently on Arthur's desk with a wink. " _Professor_ kitten."

The lecture hall filled with low laughter.

And just like that, Eames had the room, Arthur realized with a wondering shake of his head, a little resentful, a little impressed. Arthur's dream, Arthur's classroom, Arthur's students, but all Eames had to do to win the room over was saunter in, all bad boy and messy and irreverent, and smile his charming, crooked smile. Well, though, it made sense. All those students had come from Arthur's subconscious, so in some sense they must also be _him_. And, of course, Eames had Arthur. Just like that, just like Eames always had Arthur. He could have Arthur right over this desk, in fact. Right now. In front of everyone. Arthur's moans echoing through a room gone open-mouthed silent, Arthur's nails scratching at the wooden desk top.

And the look on Eames's face said he knew it, too, which… _so_ annoyingly…just made Arthur want it even more.

_Don't even THINK about it_ , the echo of Ariadne's voice snapped in Arthur's inner ear. And bless her and her wretched, bullshit reverse psychology tactics…it helped.

"Oh, no, you don't." Arthur wagged a finger, allowed himself a wryly triumphant half-smile. "Not this time."

With both hands pushed into his pockets, Eames gave his shoulders a lazy roll, and looked Arthur up and down. "No? No discipline for my tardiness?"

"You have to pass your exam first."

"My exam?" Eames chuckled, all amused indifference. "What's the subject? Not maths, I hope."

"You."

There was a soft hum of interest from the classroom behind Eames, and he angled his body so he could grin over his shoulder at his admirers. "Wonderful. _Me_ is my _strongest_ subject."

The students behind him chuckled, and Eames sketched them a little bow. He seemed to Arthur to grow just a bit taller, just a bit brighter under their attention.

Tip of his tongue sticking out at the corner of his open mouth, Eames began patting at his trouser pockets. "Now, where did I put that pencil…?"

"You're not going to need your pencil," Arthur said drily.

Eames leered. "So it's to be oral?"

There was a chorus of snickering from the auditorium, and Eames beamed.

"You," Arthur called sharply up to one of the students near the door, pointing. "Turn off the lights."

The student obeyed immediately, somewhat to Arthur's surprise, jumping up and running her hand over the row of switches on the wall plate. The lights went off with a set of soft _clicks_ , leaving only a row of low, inset lights on over Arthur's desk. The rest of the lecture hall, the students' faces, were cast into shadow, and a hush descended on the room.

"Darling, is that necessary?" Eames pouted at him. "We were all having fun."

Arthur waved a hand at the rows of students beaming back at Eames. "Do you already miss having an audience that much?"

A line appeared between Eames's brows. "I'm sorry?"

Arthur took a deep breath. "It's just me, now."

Eames leaned into the light shining down across the desk and stage-whispered, motioning behind him, "I think they're still there."

"I mean it's just me in your dreams now," Arthur said. "Isn't it?"

Eames straightened, his posture was still lazy, bordering on belligerent, but he gave Arthur a sharp look. "Yes. Only you."

"And was that by choice?"

Eames's eyes narrowed. "I take it the examination has started."

"Was that by choice?"

Eames hummed and dropped his gaze, drew a finger along the edge of the desk. "You touched me. I felt you. It was definitely _you_."

Arthur frowned. "No, I mean—"

"He means was it your choice to only dream with one person," called a voice from the darkened auditorium. "Instead of, like, spewing fuck dreams all over the whole countryside."

Arthur blinked, searching rows of faces for the speaker.

"Evocatively phrased." Eames raised his eyebrows. "No. It wasn't my choice. It just _happened_ when you…when I was woken."

"So you _do_ miss having an audience," Arthur said.

"I didn't say that," Eames reached for the apple he'd left on Arthur's desk, picked it up, buffed it against his blazer lapel. "I believe I've made my satisfaction with our current arrangement clear, hm? What's this really about, now?"

Arthur frowned. "You say you were _woken_ , so how was it different before? When you were…"

Eames set the apple back down. "Spewing?"

"Sure you wanna know about more of his _playmates_ , Arthur?" muttered a rather nasty voice from the very back of the room.

"Quiet," Arthur ordered, scowling. He pointed to the white board. "It's one of the questions. So how was it different, Eames?"

Eames chewed on his bottom lip, watching Arthur thoughtfully, before he answered. All trace of belligerence had vanished from his posture and his expression. "Before," he said at last, slowly. "It was like…you have places, yeah, with a great many television screens?" He held his palms up in front of him, arms out. "All up on a wall?"

"Electronics store," someone volunteered helpfully.

"Security guard's office," offered another voice.

"Well, it was a bit like that." Eames frowned contemplatively. "Like all those people, the ones my magic could reach, were in their own little screens, receiving my, er…"

"Spew!"

Arthur glared in the direction the last voice had come from. " _Quiet_."

"I believe _signal_ is the word I was searching for, but thank you for your contribution." Eames aimed a rather irritable smile in the same direction. "So, yes, they all received the signal, and it had its _effect_ , and if I so chose, I could watch a particular screen. Or sort of soften my mind's vision and take it all in at once. Or close my eyes entirely."

Arthur's brow furrowed. "But you couldn't interact with anyone, like you can with me?"

"No."

"Sounds lonely," said a voice near the front of the classroom.

"You too?" asked another, softer voice from the back.

A voice from the center rows. "We like you, you know."

Arthur took a startled step forward. "Be quiet!"

Eames's eyes softened. "Arthur."

"No." Arthur cut his hand through the air and shook his head, turning away to look up at the board, willing himself to focus. Be objective. At this moment, Eames _not_ his lover. He was _not_ a wayward student. He was _not_ the hottest, cockiest bastard Arthur had ever encountered. He was a _subject_. "Next question. Have you ever been able to see anything outside of dreams?"

"What do you do when you aren't with me?" called out a student's voice.

"Or influence anyone," Arthur continued, doggedly.

Another voice that sounded like it was grinning, "Do you think about Arthur?"

"Nope, not a thing outside of dreams." Eames said, then smirked. "And when I'm not with you, I sleep."

"Probably because Arthur's too boring to bother thinking about," someone snickered nastily.

"Hey!" Arthur protested, a little weakly, because he'd immediately thought the exact same thing.

"Hey, now." Eames said at the same time. He turned to the auditorium and widened his stance. "We'll have none of that—"

"You don't watch the…televisions anymore?" Arthur asked, gritting his teeth.

"They've all gone dark." Eames pushed his hands back into his pockets and shrugged. "Things have definitely…changed."

"For the worse, it sounds like," someone muttered from the left side of the room.

"Yeah, that's a shit trade," someone else from the right side of the room agreed. "A forty-six mile circle of free porno in exchange for _Arthur_?"

Arthur flushed and shouted. "If you can't keep quiet, you can _leave_. Class is dismissed!"

"Hang on, _Eames_ ," another voice called out, ignoring Arthur completely, "you said you _felt_ him _touch_ you. That was outside of a dream."

"Are you lying?" hissed a suspicious voice, and a rumble of dissatisfaction ran through the room as the students muttered to one another and bodies shifted.

Eames cast an uneasy look back at Arthur. "That was different. An exception. Something happened—"

"You don't have to answer _them_ ," Arthur said, glowering. "Class is _dismissed_. Go away!"

"You don't know what you're doing," the last voice that had spoken whispered, darkly.

Someone laughed. "Hey, Eames, can you really not come, or is it just that Arthur's not hot enough?"

"Darling," Eames said in a flat tone of warning, "I think this dream is going pear-shaped."

"Eames, why do you speak English?"

"I am English," Eames snapped.

"But, _modern_ English?"

"Hey, will you wear that earring for us? That was hot."

"Take your clothes off!"

"What's with your teeth?"

"Shut _up!_ " Arthur cast a helpless look back at Eames. His pulse was starting to pound. "I don't know how to stop them!"

"How long before you're bored with Arthur?"

"Did you love Robert Fisher?"

"Oh my god, SHUT UP!" Arthur shouted, his voice pitching up to a humiliating squeak at the end.

"Do you _still_ love Robert Fisher?"

Eames nodded toward the exit sign. "Darling, perhaps—?"

"Both of you take your clothes off!"

"Fuck on the desk!"

"Arthur thinks about your mouth when he jerks off!"

"No, his hands!"

"His nipples!"

Arthur put his face in his hands and whispered, "Fuck."

And, thank _God_ , a loud class bell rang.

 

***

 

"Well." Arthur blinked himself awake, cheeks flaming. "That sucked."

Ariadne just handed him his journal. "One more tonight?"

Arthur sighed and picked up his pen. "One more."

 

***

 

Arthur's tiny New York apartment smelled of fresh-baked bread. City sounds, cars and voices and distant construction, drifted in through the open window. The crisp bite of autumn was in the air, but when Arthur looked outside—

_That_ wasn't supposed to be there.

Arthur frowned and turned down the blinds.

His bed, tucked into a corner against the natural brick feature wall (it was what had enticed him into signing the lease), was rumpled and unmade, white sheets in disarray. Perhaps he should make it up before Eames arrived.

Arthur wasn't accustomed to having dinner guests—or _dates_ , he supposed. This was more like a date. Arthur paused for a moment to think about Eames's mouth. Yes, definitely a date, even if Arthur did have an ulterior motive. What was the etiquette for making up a bed you were hoping to end up rumpling again? Did he have time to wash the sheets?

"Arthur."

"Shit!" Arthur gasped, startling. "I didn't see you."

Eames was sitting in a darkened corner of the studio. His voice was low, his expression quizzical. "What are you doing?"

"Well. This bed and. Um." Arthur waved a hand toward the kitchenette, at the dish of sweet apples, the glass beehive honey jar his mother had given him, the shiny, braided bread. "Making us dinner, apparently. "

"Not the dinner, _lieveling_. The alarms."

"Alarms?" Arthur gulped. "What alarms?"

"Arthur," Eames said reproachfully. "Do you think I don't know when an alarm wakes someone from a dream, hm?"

Arthur threw down the pillow he had picked up to fluff and looked away. Then nodded. "Okay. Yes. They're alarms."

"And the questions? And Robert?" Eames stood and walked to Arthur. At Arthur's bedside, he leaned down and smoothed the cotton pillowcase, his hand lingering where Arthur had touched it. "What are you doing?" he asked again, gently but firmly.

Arthur sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. "I didn't want this. I didn't want to contaminate the experiments."

"Contaminate the experiments," Eames repeated slowly. "I'm…an experiment?"

"No! I mean. Not exactly."

Eames tilted his head, his frown growing bewildered. "Am I the contaminant?"

Arthur swallowed, feeling caught out, like he'd done something wrong. And maybe he had. He'd certainly been bungling these experiments and now Eames sounded confused and hurt when all Arthur had wanted was to—

"Come here," Arthur said, and walked to the window.

Eames's brow wrinkled warily, but he followed.

"Eames, I thought I was going to find your _body_ today," Arthur said tightly.

Eames's smile was humorless. "Not the sexy one."

"It wasn't there. It was just a crack in the rock. It's breaking apart, Eames." Arthur blew out a breath, steadying his nerves, trying to choose his words and not just blurt out his fears—Eames just _gone_ , Eames broken and destroyed and _gone_. "You've felt restless, you said. You've felt something happening."

"What's breaking apart?" Eames's brows were knitted tight. "What rock?"

Arthur turned to the window, opened the blinds. Sunlight seared the white wall opposite. "Look," he said.

Instead of Arthur's shady city street view, a red-orange cliff face rose outside his window, and the Penis of Eames was framed by the weathered panes. A dark, jagged crack ran along the side of one testicle, echoed by a score of smaller fissures in the cliff face. The ground was strewn with rubble, dust rising as though the broken stone had just fallen.

Eames's indrawn breath was almost silent.

Outside Arthur's apartment, somewhere unseen, a train horn sounded, and the building began to tremble. A tumble of rocks rolled off the cliff, landing in clouds of dust at the base.

"I think I've seen this. Are we in Mordor?" Eames asked, with a horribly forced laugh.

"Eames."

"Well, there _is_ an eye."

"Stop it!" Arthur reached out impulsively for Eames's arm and then swore as his hand swung aside, missing its target. "It's not funny. I'm scared for you. Eames, I'm _scared_."

Eames's face crumpled into dismay, his eyes wide and locked on the Penis. "That's really me?"

"I'm trying to help," Arthur grated, curling his hands into fists. "Fix this. Help you. _Save you_. That's what I'm doing. That's what the experiments are for. I'm _going_ to help you."

Eames swallowed and was silent for a long moment. When he finally looked at Arthur, there was something behind his blue-grey eyes Arthur couldn't interpret. An intensity that sent a thrill chasing down Arthur's spine.

"What do you need me to do?"

***

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur concludes his dream experiments. Eames releases the Kraken.

"Well, I have a…a theory." Arthur bit his lip. "I mean, I don't know exactly how penis magic works, obviously. You're the expert there. But I was thinking that if the seismic events that are causing _that_ ," he nodded out the window at his dream's manifestation of the Penis, the rubble, the crack in the cliff face, "are directly connected to specific dream…scenarios, then maybe—"

"We stop engaging in those scenarios?" Eames frowned.

"Or control them. What if we could _control_ them?" Arthur felt a hard pulse of urgency, of excitement in his chest as soon as he spoke his hope aloud. He cupped his hands like he might show Eames the little glowing sphere of potential between them. "I control the dreams, you said. And I know I'm _not_ , not really, they're just _happening_ , but I'm starting to at least…influence them? I don't know how, okay, and I didn't _mean_ to, but I put _that_ there." He nodded at the Penis again. "So maybe I can learn to do more. Do things like that on purpose, full lucid dreaming. And you control _you_. So between the two of us, that's everything we need. If we control the dream environment, and the dream environment affects the real world environment…"

Eames's brows knit together. "You can save it further damage."

Arthur made an impatient motion. "Not it. _You_. It's how I—we save _you_ , Eames. Ari and Yusuf and I. We're comparing dream events to seismic events, looking for a causal relationship. Emotional stimuli. Physical stimuli. We made a sort of sleep lab, with video and notes and—" Arthur caught his breath, blinked at Eames. "What's wrong?"

Eames looked away, like he couldn't meet Arthur's eyes for a moment. His throat worked. "You're rather amazing, darling. Did you know that?"

"I don't know if I can do it," Arthur admitted on a sigh, dropping his hands. "It's just a theory."

Eames gave him a look like Arthur had missed his point entirely before he asked, "And how do I help you test this theory?"

"Well, I," Arthur's eyes drifted inadvertently to the still-rumpled bed, "do have one more experiment to conduct." 

Eames's gaze followed Arthur's. The bed's white sheets were lit gold by slanted beams of sunlight. "Do you, now?"

Arthur's stomach fluttered in anticipation, low and familiar, at the soft drop in Eames's voice. 

"And what might this experiment entail?"

"Um. My orgasm."

Eames raised an eyebrow.

"It's research. Physical stimulus. It's not just…" Arthur frowned. "I have to be thorough _._ It's important."

"Hm," Eames hummed and turned away. He wandered, hands behind his back, to the corner of the little studio that served as Arthur's kitchenette, leaning over to inhale the scent of Arthur's freshly-baked bread, reaching out to let his fingers curl momentarily around one of the shiny red apples in the bowl on Arthur's countertop. "Then we shall have to be _quite_ thorough, shall we not?" He picked up the glass beehive jar beside the apples and turned back to Arthur with an absolutely _determined_ smile.

 

***

 

"Mmnh," Arthur groaned around Eames's cock, around the taste of salty skin and honey. The breeze from the open apartment window was like a warm breath of desire across his face.

"That's it, pet." Eames's voice was strained.

Arthur's hand was sticky, halva-gold between his fingers, but it squeezed slick enough around the head of his own cock, around the echoed sensation of wet heat from his mouth on Eames's dick. He flattened his tongue and pushed down until he felt Eames at the back of his throat. Breathed in through his nose and swallowed.

Eames cursed, rough and hoarse. " _Putain_. Get on the bed."

Arthur made a choked sound of protest.

"On the bed, you bloody incubus," Eames growled, and suddenly Arthur was left with only the feeling of his own hand around himself.

Arthur pulled off of Eames with another moan, sucking regret and want all the way up until the last wet swirl of his tongue. He tipped his head up slowly, his breathing slow but heavy, to give Eames a reproachful look.

Eames sniffed, ridiculously prim for a erect, naked man with honey smeared down his thighs. "No more sharing until you're on. The." Eames twitched his thumb at the base of his cock and thumped Arthur on the nose with the tacky head. " _Bed._ "

"Hey!"

"And we'll have none of your sass. You're already threatening to derail my plan with that mouth of yours."

"I played trumpet in high school," Arthur said smugly.

"I don't know what that means. Why don't you explain it _on the bed_."

Arthur grinned as he stood, and wiped the back of his hand across his sticky chin. "What plan?"

"We're doing _plans_ now, yeah? Serious scientific plans and that? Well, I happen to have one." Eames pulled the wooden dipper from its beehive jar and pointed at Arthur's bed with it. A blob of honey dripped slowly toward the floor.

"But…" Arthur hesitated, frowning at Eames's hand, then over one shoulder at his nice white bed, and heard Eames smother a laugh.

"Darling. They're dream sheets. You won't even have to wash them."

"That's not what I was—" Arthur made a face. Fine, it was exactly what he'd been thinking. He flopped back dramatically onto his unmade bed, squeezed his honey-thick fingers into the cool, clean sheets as he eased himself back onto the pillows. "Happy?"

"Yes, Arthur, thank you for allowing me to bring you to orgasm on a comfortable surface," Eames purred, running a lascivious gaze up and down Arthur's body, lingering unabashedly on Arthur's erection.

"You're welcome." Arthur stretched out, all but preening. "What's this _plan_?"

"You asked me a question. In the ballroom. Do you remember?"

"I asked you a lot of questions."

"Mm, yes. But this was a _particular_ question. One I've been giving some thought."

Arthur frowned. "I'm not sure which…?"

"I think you'll figure it out shortly. The answer is _yes,_ by the way. I can." The bed dipped as Eames put a knee down on the mattress. "Legs open, love. I'll need some room to work."

Arthur swallowed. " _Oh_."

"Yes?" Eames asked softly.

Arthur bent his knees and spread his thighs apart as far they would go.

Eames laughed, low and rumbling, as he climbed onto the bed between Arthur's feet, looking Arthur over closely, and Arthur fought the urge to squirm under his very specifically focused attention.

"How's this going to work, um, logistically…with just the…" He waggled a finger at Eames's penis. "Maybe I should…turn over?"

"No, no, no, stay just as you are, _mia mela_ ," Eames soothed, even as his own voice quavered slightly. "You are positively luscious."

"But—"

"Arthur. Trust me?"

"I do," Arthur whispered.

"Close your eyes?"

Arthur exhaled slowly and let his eyes drift shut. His lower belly had begun to tremble, and he willed himself to relax. _Everywhere_. "Okay."

Eames's weight on the bed shifted. The mattress dipped at Arthur's side, springs groaning quietly, and Eames's voice came from above him, closer. "You're going to feel me now."

"Okay," Arthur breathed and— "Ah!" Arthur jolted as he felt an actual  _touch_ slide along the back of his cock, pressing down toward his abdomen. "That's—"

"Mm, it is," Eames murmured, sounding smug and shaky at the same time as he slid back down Arthur, slick and warm. "Ready to share again?"

Eames's cock brushed Arthur's again, and this time Arthur felt it twice, his own sensations mixed with Eames's. Arthur clutched at the sheets. "Yes. Good. Sharing is good." He pushed up into Eames, trying to get more friction. Their skin was slick, but still sticky enough with honey to catch and pull in a most _interesting_ way.

And then Arthur felt it. A second, simultaneous touch. Except _lower_.

His eyes flew open. "Eames!"

Eames was braced over him on one arm, muscles flexing under his own weight, careful not to touch with any other part of his body. His bottom lip was bit hard between his teeth in concentration. He pulsed his hips, once, and Arthur felt the dual slide of their erections. And another pressure. And extra heat at the tip of his own cock from where Eames's was pressed.

"Oh my god," he gasped. " _Two_?"

"The sorcerer was _very_ good to me," Eames huffed, half laugh, half strain. "You said it, darling. I control _me_. My appearance. My _body_." He moved his hips again, and Arthur felt four distinct, _amazing_ sensations. "I thought I'd put that idea to the test. Now close your eyes again for me, hm? Are you ready?"

Arthur closed his eyes. "Yes."

And Eames slid inside him, smooth, slick, painless. And he felt, he felt—

"Hnh!" Arthur's fists curled into the sheets so tightly he thought he might form diamonds.

"Breathe, darling."

"It's so much," he gasped, finally. "It's so much."

"But good?"

Arthur nodded violently.

"Then open up your hands for me, pet. Palms up. And for god's sake, keep your eyes closed."

"Why?"

"Because I'm a vain man. And this is going to _look_ bloody ridiculous."

Arthur kept his eyes closed, but he could hear the wry warmth in Eames's smile, could sense the way his eyes had gone heavy-lidded.

"And because it's not two, kitten. It's _four_."

"Oh my god," Arthur whispered as he felt twin weights press into his palms.

"You asked me for an orgasm," Eames's breath tickled Arthur's ear, and inside Arthur, Eames's cock—one of them— _purred_. "It's going to be a good one."

 

***

 

"—Eames!" Arthur howled himself awake, writhing, back arching, hands clenched around the sides of his camp bed. "Eames! Fuck! I can't!" he panted. " _I can't. It's. Too. Eames._ " Arthur's breath caught suddenly when he opened his eyes. And realized he was staring at the top of his tent. And his boxers felt very sticky. He swallowed down his next cry and blinked resolutely up at the canvas, listening to the music filling the otherwise silent room until his heart rate began to slow, his breath evening out, and…

Arthur turned his head slowly. "Can you maybe turn that off?"

Ariadne and Yusuf were behind the cameras, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, eyes wide, mouths open. Ariadne had a death grip on Yusuf's thigh. Her eyes looked a little glassy. Yusuf's face was brick pink.

"Oh!" Ariadne started and lurched toward Arthur's desk. She fumbled with her iPhone, and the slightly tinny sound of what might have been a marching band fight song stopped. Yusuf swayed in place.

They stared at each other.

Finally a nervous giggle rippled out into the silence.

"Yusuf!" Ariadne hissed.

"Sorry!"

"Oh, god," Arthur started, flung an arm over his face. He was sweating, he'd _been_ sweating, and his boxers felt not just sticky but, well,  _soaked_. "I _warned_ you."

"But—" Yusuf choked down another giggle.

"Yusuf! Help me with this gear."

"—I didn't expect—" Yusuf pointed at Arthur. " _That_. Was… _hot_."

" _Yusuf_."

"Oh, god," Arthur groaned into the crook of his arm. "Just. Were there tremors?"

Yusuf muttered something that sounded a lot like, "In my pants," and then giggled again.

" _YUSUF_." Ariadne snapped. "Oh, for Christ's—"

Something soft hit Arthur's chest. Towel.

"There _was_ seismic activity, but low level," Ariadne said crisply. "A significant tremor early in the dream, but it was brief. No damage reported to the Penis or surrounding support. And after that, all quiet until…you know, you. Um. So…do we need to go again?"

Arthur rolled over so his back was to her and Yusuf and did his best to clean himself up a little without being too blatant about it. "No. We're. No. Just. Wrap it up."

There was a gusty sigh followed by some clicking noises, switches being flipped, buttons pressed. "I'll radio Jayne," Ariadne said, sounding oddly more breathless now. "Yusuf, get your stuff."

"Hm?"

"Yusuf," Ariadne's voice went deep. "Our tent. _Now_."

There was a manly yelp, scuffling, and the flap of the tent door, and then Arthur was alone.

 

****Experiment D (Dreamer's Physical Stimulation) Conclusion:  
Wow.** **

 

***

 

Arthur was up early, even earlier than usual, anxious to begin analyzing the data. He made his way quietly through the still-sleeping camp in the pink light of dawn, going about his morning routine carefully, step-by-step. This was how today was going to go: careful, calm, step-by-step. He couldn't allow his sense of urgency to rush him into making any mistakes. Shower. Coffee. Instant oatmeal. He followed the slow ticks of his inner metronome, did not stare too long at the Penis, did not allow the hopeful-apprehensive tumult of his emotions to break free. One step at a time, he walked through camp.

In his field office, he refueled the generator, plugged in the video cameras to start recharging, and then laid everything out—Jayne's seismic readings, his own journal notes, Ariadne's video footage—to begin synchronizing the data. Four experiments. It had seemed like a good starting point, but suddenly it didn't seem like enough.

But one step at a time.

The sky was blue by the time Ariadne and Yusuf stumbled in looking sleepy, tousled, and…sated.

"Sorry we're late, Arthur," Ariadne offered sheepishly. "It was, um, a busy night."

"Glad to have been of service," Arthur said with a dry smile.

Yusuf blushed, while Ariadne grinned and winked. "You're doing okay, then?" she asked. "You sound okay."

"Yeah, actually," Arthur put down his pen and stretched. Yusuf looked quickly away. "I am. Dream time doesn't match up with real time, but I think I'm getting things aligned. Slowly."

Ariadne came over to frown down at Arthur's spreadsheet and notes. "Conclusions?"

Arthur shook his head. "Way too early. And I'm trying not to presuppose anything until I'm finished."

"Can we help?"

"I really just want to stay focused. So…keep everyone busy? There's still plenty of clean-up to do. Ward off as many interruptions as you can. That sort of thing. And, Yusuf?"

Yusuf started and then fixed a mildly inquisitive smile on his face. "What? Yes?"

Ariadne sighed and rolled her eyes. "Don't mind him, Arthur, he's still processing his feelings about you. Yusuf, stop being weird."

Yusuf scowled. "I am _not_."

"Arthur, you are _hot_ ," Ariadne said, punctuating with a firm nod. "We've seen it. We know. You know we know. Now let's all just get on with things, okay?"

"Yusuf," Arthur said evenly, willing down his own rising blush, "check on the water sampling. Let me know if there's been any significant change and bring in any sample data I don't have yet. The more data the better."

"Will do," Yusuf said, meeting Arthur's eyes determinedly.

Ariadne gave him a thumbs up before putting an arm around Arthur's shoulders. "Sure you don't need anything else?" she asked more quietly.

"For now?" Arthur looked at his mostly-empty spreadsheet and sighed. "Just…wish me good science."

"Good science," she repeated with a dutiful smile, then leaned in to whisper in Arthur's ear, "hot pants."

"Fuck off," Arthur grinned, shoving her away.

He returned to his analysis with a smile. Calm. Careful. One step at a time. And just maybe this could work.

 

***

 

Trusting his intuition was still a difficult thing for Arthur, even though he'd been giving into his feelings, his instincts, with more and more abandon since he'd discovered the Penis. He'd followed little more than legends and reports of dreams to the center of a forty-six mile radius circle on the Kenyan coast, and been exhilarated by the payoff, but he'd told himself the research that led him here made _sense_. Then, that night, after Nash had broken through, awoken the Penis, Arthur had felt something—a presence, something stirring in the wind, in his mind. Something that touched him. And touched him again and again, until he was crying out its name. _His_ name. He'd accepted that the boundary between dreams and reality was far more fluid than he'd ever imagined. And maybe he was running now on nothing more than imagination. Fantasy. Maybe his choices were unfounded, completely illogical. Maybe Ariadne had been right—he was in the Penis's thrall.

But then again…maybe his instincts were sound.

It was just past midnight, frogs outside serenading the stars, when Arthur rubbed his tired eyes before one final look at his data, and he _saw_ it. A slow smile spread over his face.

" _Got you_."

 

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you BakerStMel and nolaespoir for your ever-helpful feedback. <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I love the Penis in the springtime._   
>  _I love the Penis when it falls._

It was beautiful. It was perfect.

Arthur wanted to run from room to room like a little kid, slide across the herringbone wood floors in his sock feet. He wanted to jump up and down on the big four-poster bed, punch the gauzy white canopy in triumph, bat the crystals in the chandeliers so they chimed like a chorus of tiny bells.

He _made_ this. He planned it and then he dreamed it, just as he'd imagined.

The white walls with their intricate moldings were drenched in sunlight, and a breeze that smelled of fresh bread and tobacco and citrus-cypress perfume drifted gently through the open casement windows. The narrow balcony, decorated with scrolling iron railings and shaded by leafy trees, looked out onto the Seine, the Eiffel Tower, the Pont de Bier-Hakiem, and long, wide Haussman boulevards lined with white townhouses.

"Eames, where are you?" Arthur shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Hurry up!"

"Give us a moment," came a muffled voice just outside the apartment door. "M'adjusting my baguette."

Arthur bounded off the bed and flung open the door.

" _Bonjour, mon chou!_ " Eames greeted Arthur expansively. He was wearing a beret. And he actually had a baguette, which he waggled suggestively in front of the crotch of his black trousers. " _Et, oui, je suis hereux de te voir._ "

Arthur smirked. "Happy to see you, too. Take that hat off immediately. You look like a mime."

Eames grinned as he swiped the ridiculous beret off his head, but his smile faded into something more tentative as he stepped inside. "So…how did we do? You look…happy."

" _Look_ ," Arthur said, stepping back and sweeping his arm out.

Eames moved further into the room and looked around. He scratched his jaw. "It's…a lovely flat, Arthur, really. But I'm not sure how it answers the question."

"Because I dreamed it _on purpose_."

Eames's gaze sharpened appreciatively. "Really? And the rest?"

"Everything! Well, the view, anyway. I don't know how it turned out down at street level."

"I nicked this bread from a charming little _boulangerie,"_ said Eames. "Is this where you'd like to live? Paris?"

"Oh, no. I mean, yes, maybe, one day, but…I made it for you." Arthur finally allowed himself a big, deep breath, letting the warmth his pride settle in next to the warmth of Eames's presence, and the idea that _they could do this thing_. "Sorry, I jumped ahead, didn't I? We did…really well, Eames. I went through all the data. And it's…" Arthur huffed a little laugh. "It's actually pretty simple."

Eames had tucked his baguette against his chest, like he was hugging it. "And?"

"The tremors always—or almost always—followed negative emotional stimuli in the dream world. Specifically your, um, distress. When you talked about your curse. When you first saw the Penis."

"Almost always?"

"Well, there was one I that didn't make sense. When we were at the, uh, waterfall? The first time we…"

The corner of Eames's mouth curled up. "Shared?"

"Yeah." Arthur felt a flush of heat on his cheeks. "There was a mild tremor that night. And seeing as how you spent most of that dream _laughing at me_ , I didn't see why—"

"You wouldn't come to me," Eames said softly.

"What?"

"I wanted to meet you properly, and you wouldn't come to me. You dreamt an enormous trench of steaming mud between us." Eames sniffed. "I may have felt a tad rejected."

Arthur blinked. "Seriously?"

Eames gave him a woeful look. "What if you didn't like me?"

"Yeah, well," Arthur arched an eyebrow. "I did."

"You showed a certain appreciation," Eames purred. "But you could still reassure me."

"I do, in fact, like you, Eames."

"And my baguette?" There was another waggle.

"I'm sure your baguette is delicious."

Eames smiled brightly. "I believe it is. Thank you, Arthur, all happy now. Back to your analysis, then?"

"That's just it, though. That's what's so simple," Arthur said. "Basically, we have to keep you happy. Or calm. Basically, limit distress. You're like…Bruce Banner."

"Who?"

"The Hulk? Big green guy, when he gets angry? Bursts out of his clothes? Smashes things?" Arthur made a helpfully illustrative smashing motion with his arms.

"Hm, yes. I do tend to burst out of my clothing when sufficiently roused." Eames nodded.  "But, that's it? That does seem…terribly simple."

"But the point is now we _know_. Ari's monitoring topside again, but I told her not to expect any tremors." Arthur couldn't help his slow, sly smile. He'd felt _bold_ , making that prediction aloud to Ariadne, and even more so saying it to Eames. "Not this time."

"Because you're going to," Eames's gaze drifted past Arthur's shoulder, resting pointedly on the big bed that dominated the room, "make me happy?"

"I hope so." Arthur felt a little shiver of nervous anticipation. He gestured for Eames to follow him across the room, not to the bed, but to a set of glass-paned double doors beyond. "Come on. It's in here."

Eames followed, head tilted curiously. "It?"

Arthur pressed the brass lever down, pushed the doors open with a flourish, and held his breath.

Eames was silent for a long time.

When Arthur risked a glance at his face, Eames's lips were pressed together in a flat line, almost like he might be in pain. "It's…a _maison_ _atelier,_ " Arthur faltered. "A studio. I thought…you might like to paint again."

Eames blinked several times and then looked down at the baguette he was still holding in one hand. He choked off a laugh and his voice came out husky. "And I've brought you this silly thing."

Arthur found his breath again. "So…you like it?"

"Arthur, I'm trying not to bloody cry." Eames huffed another laugh and ran a hand over his face. "Happily and calmly, of course."

"Good, because that's important. The calm part. Sort of the point here, actually."

Eames nodded, bright-eyed. "Got it."

"Also, fresh-baked French bread is never silly," Arthur said solemnly. "Don't insult the bread."

"Arthur, you're wonderful."

Arthur ducked his head, smiling. "So, um, I didn't know what you'd need, but there are a couple of easels. Canvases. And paper sketch pads. A bunch of different brushes and palette knives."

Eames put his baguette down on one of the work tables and trailed along behind Arthur, touching everything Arthur mentioned as he gave his tour.

"Big windows for light," Arthur gestured. "Some solvents and varnishes over here. And you don't have to make your own paint anymore. I have—" Arthur turned to the work table and blinked. " _Shit_."

"You have…shit?"

"I have," Arthur sighed, reached out and picked up a green and yellow cardboard box, staring at it helplessly, "Crayola."

"Crayola?"

" _Crayons_."

"But isn't that a sort of pencil?"

"This was supposed to be _paint_. And, yeah, actual pencils and charcoals and stuff." Arthur sighed. "I'm sorry, Eames. I wanted it to be perfect. I wanted everything to be _perfect_."

"But it says sixty-four colors." Eames pointed at the box, excited. "How dreadful can that be? Bloody hell, _sixty-four_ pigments—"

Arthur cracked open the box lid and tipped it back. And scowled. "One."

"But it says—"

"Well, apparently I've made them all the same color."

"Ah. Er. Is it…a nice color?"

Arthur pulled out one of the mustardy-colored crayons and peered at the label on the side. "Goldenrod."

Eames blinked at him. Then pressed his lips together. The corners of his eyes crinkled.

"What?"

"Oh, darling."

" _What_?"

"So metaphorical."

"It's…not a penis metaphor."

Eames's laughter bubbled out, bright and happy.

"It's not!"

" _Goldenrod_."

Arthur's mouth twitched. "Shut up!"

"Oh, darling," Eames said again, wiping his eyes. " _Now_ it's perfect."

 

***

 

Arthur wriggled his feet in the patch of warm afternoon sunlight slanting across the bed, frowning at the wiry hairs on his big toes. His toes didn't match, which was vaguely distressing.

"So could you turn your _toes_ into dicks?"

"I don't think so." Eames chuckled as he glanced up from his sketch pad. He squinted at Arthur's left arm and flicked crayon across paper. There was a pile of worn-down crayons at the side of the bed and a spread of mustard-colored sketches of Arthur in various poses strewn across the hardwood floor.

"What about your fingers? Or your _nose_?"

Eames bit his mouth, laughing. He sketched standing, wandering back and forth at the end of the bed to look at Arthur from different angles. "And…how many glasses of wine have you had now?"

"Just a little." Arthur frowned. "To soak up the baguette."

"Well, I would gladly manifest penis toes for you if I could, _mon pétale fraîche_. But it seems, in my admittedly limited experience with the art, my penile permutations can only originate from," Eames gestured crotchward with his crayon, "the source."

"Oh. No penis toes," Arthur said sadly.

"No penis toes."

"Toes already look a little like penises, don't they? Little penises. Look a little like little penises." Arthur giggled. His toes looked like penises. Also, Eames was gorgeous. "You're gorgeous."

"And you're in your cups."

Arthur looked at his empty wine glass, which was a glass. "What cups?"

"I'm suggesting that you're quite _relaxed_."

"Oh! I am," Arthur said happily, wriggling into the pile of squishy pillows. "I'm not wearing pants."

"And I thank you for informing me of that situation."

"You're welcome."

Arthur watched Eames in contented silence for a while, the way his face changed as he worked, frowning in concentration, biting his lip, a pout when something didn't look right, questioning, curiosity, brightening when he caught a line right, scowling again when some mark or other dissatisfied him.

"Are you drawing my junk?" Arthur asked suspiciously.

"I prefer think of it as your treasure, darling."

Arthur snorted loudly.

"And I am indeed. Amongst all the other lovely parts of you." His eyes flickered up and down from the paper to Arthur and back again. "Shall I incorporate a lovely fig leaf into this one to preserve your modesty?"

"Why are you drawing _me_? There's nicer stuff out there that I put there. Pretty Paris stuff."

"Not even Paris can rival your intricate beauty." Eames winked and then made a twirling motion with his hand. "To the left, hm? Show us a bit of cheek."

Arthur shifted agreeably onto his side. "You're drawing me a lot."

"M'out of practice," Eames murmured, his attention on the little arced lines he was putting down. "Not doing full justice to your exquisite form." He looked up and leered as he studied the curve of Arthur's ass. "But I shall persevere in the endeavor."

Arthur squirmed a little. He loved it when Eames looked at him like— "I love it when you look at me like that."

Eames's gaze shifted from Arthur's back to his front. His mouth twitched. "So I see."

"Hey, do you need your shirt on to draw? Because I also love it when I look at you like that. Oh, also when you talk. I love it when you talk," Arthur hummed, warm and hazy, and slid one of his hands across the sheets. White and crisp, just like his ones at home. He'd brought Eames home. _Twice_. He smiled to himself, a secret little smile. "You should talk all the time. Tell me things."

"What sort of things?"

"Any sort of things that you have to say with your voice."

"Hm. I could answer your students' questions," Eames said lightly.

"Oh my god." Arthur turned his face into his pillow then peeked out again. "You remember that?"

"Question one: the answer is _yes_ ," Eames winked, gave his head a little shake, and a tiny pearl droplet shimmered from his left ear, "I _will_ wear the earring for you."

Arthur made a truly embarrassing, sort of squeaky sound of appreciation. "Okay. Go on."

Eames's grin was predictably smug. He scratched away at his sketchpad. "Question two: why do I speak _modern_ English? Because it's what you speak, so it only seems polite. "

"What did you sound like…before?"

"A bit like…" Eames rearranged his posture slightly, crayon temporarily arrested, and proclaimed, " _All dayes are nights to see till I see thee, and nights bright daies when dreams do shew thee me._ "

"Oh. No, stop." Arthur drew back, eyes wide. "You sound like Hagrid."

Eames brightened. "I know that one! _Yer a wizard, Arthur!_ "

Arthur rolled his eyes indulgently. "You're the one with penis magic," he pointed out.

"If you'd like some non-English options, I can offer you a choice of fourteen or fifteen other languages."

Arthur blinked. "You speak fifteen languages?"

"Mm. Now I do." Eames shrugged. "Fluently, that is. Bits and bobs of ten or twenty more."

"Uh. Wow."

"Well, I had a bit of time to learn, yeah?" Eames dropped his gaze and rubbed at a spot on the sketch with his thumb. " _Mais je ne regrette rien, car ma vie, car mes joies, aujourd'hui, ça commence avec toi._ "

"Which means?"

Eames's smile reminded Arthur a little of his own super-secret smile. "That it was time well spent if I impress you with my quick tongue. Which—and this is more of a response to a comment than a question—you are welcome to think about, along with my mouth or hands or even nipples, whilst you have an enthusiastic wank."

Arthur blushed furiously. "My subconscious hates me."

"But does it lie?"

"Shut up."

Eames snickered as he held out his sketchbook at a full arm's length, studying his portrait. He nodded satisfaction, tore the sheet from the binding, and flipped it around. _"Voilà!"_ He gave Arthur a big, toothy smile, waiting for his approval.

"Oh," said Arthur. His breath caught, and his voice sounded small. His face felt like it was doing funny things. He gathered his sheet up around himself, feeling suddenly ungainly by comparison with this depiction of a long-limbed, reclining, sensuously-shadowed, warm-eyed man that couldn't possibly be _him_ because…fuck, that guy was _hot_. Arthur cleared his throat. "Wow." He scooted down the bed for a closer look and then winced up at Eames. "You are out of practice."

"What?" Eames squawked, flipping the page back around and looking down at it in dismay.

Arthur broke into a sort of snuffling laugh, clapped his hands over his mouth.

"Arthur, you arsehole," Eames huffed.

"Jesus, Eames, it's…" Arthur kept his hands up and spoke behind them. "It's really…beautiful. I just don't. That's not. That _can't_ be what you see when you look—" Arthur shook his head and held out a hand, making grabby-fingers. "Here, give it."

Eames carefully laid the thick sheet of paper on the bed, his proud expression back in place. "I thought this was my best one yet. But then, it's difficult to go wrong when your model is quite literally an artist's dream."

Arthur picked up the sketch, still shaking his head. "But… _look_ at him. He's all…golden."

Eames raised his eyebrows and held up his crayon.

"Yeah, okay. But no crayons next time," Arthur vowed.  "I'll get it right. What do you want? I'll look it all up."

"Arthur, I don't need—oh!" Eames's face lit up, and he hopped a little hop on the balls of his feet. "There's paint you can _spray_."

Arthur laughed out loud. "Yeah, there is."

"I think I'd enjoy spraying things."

"I can…totally see that." Arthur grinned. "I'd been thinking you'd want to do maps again."

"I have done. Maps of Arthur." Eames sat down on the corner of the bed and reached out for the sketch. He traced a gentle finger down the page, over the lines of Arthur's face. "So I'll always find my way back."

Arthur flushed. Possibly all the way down to his toes.

"And in case you haven't figured out the answer to question three..." Eames gave him a fond smile. "No. I am not still in love with Robert Fisher."

"But you...were?"

"I don't know. Perhaps. I know I wanted to see him…happier."

Arthur nodded. Looked down at his hands. Plucked at his thumb. "He married. Not long after you disappeared." He glanced up at Eames to gauge his reaction. He looked surprised but not upset. "You…want to know?"

Eames nodded silently for Arthur to go on.

"Her name was Alice Fitton. They had five children after his father died and he became the Earl of Morrowe. I, um…I traced his descendants. They're all over the world now. Some still in Morrowe. One's a hockey player in Canada. There's a branch of the family in Germany—Fischer with a C—they own a winery. And another branch in Australia that runs some big energy company. I guess that doesn't tell you anything about how happy he was, but...does that help at all?"

"It does, actually." Eames's smile was distant for a moment. "Thank you, Arthur."

"Well." Arthur gave a modest shrug. "You're welcome."

"No, Arthur. Thank you. For telling me this. For my maps. For bloody even...giving a damn. For the studio. For everything. For making _Paris_."

Arthur flushed under the sudden intensity of Eames's gaze. "It's probably not even accurate."

"Darling," Eames leaned in, a lopsided smile chasing away his serious expression, and whispered, "I wouldn't know the difference. I never actually managed a visit."

"Oh." Arthur frowned.

"It wouldn't be the same as it was in my day anyway, hm? But I'd very much like to see your version," Eames turned and cast a wistful look out the window. "I've seen it in dreams, like I've seen a lot places. Glimpses. There was, I remember, one with a flood. The streets of Paris were flooded and people went through the city in the fog on flat boats with poles."

"Like Venice?"

"Mm, except the bloke in this dream extorted all the poor stranded people for transport." Eames smirked. "And dreamt that he drowned under one of his flat boats."

"Oh."

"And a woman—she was a little girl again in the dream—who lived in a zoo. And all the fair ladies in their long, heavy puffy-arsed skirts and with their parasols and the gentlemen in their top hats came to look at her. But what she kept her eyes on," Eames pointed, narrowing his eyes as though he saw something off in the distance, "through the tents and trees, was a golden dome and a garden full of angels, and she dreamt they all flew away together, over the city, over the sea."

"Well…she ended up near you somehow, right?" Arthur asked, leaning forward, drawn in to Eames's stories, to the soft cadence of his voice. His dream-wine buzz was wearing off already, but he still felt a little like he was floating. The sun was setting now beyond the wrought-iron balcony, and the lights of Eames's and Arthur's own City of Light were twinkling into life along the Seine.

Eames's gaze was unfocused, looking off over Arthur's shoulder. A smile quirked his lips. "And a man, cheeky, my sort of fellow, actually. We might have been mates. Chipped this great sodding stone out of the wall of the Louvre and hid papers behind it. Secret plans and such. From the soldiers. And he ran through the streets at night and he laughed, because they might catch him any day." Eames grinned. "But they didn't, did they?"

"Did they find the plans?" Arthur asked, wide-eyed.

Eames chuckled softly. "He didn't dream that bit, sorry."

"Oh. Right."

"And _then_ ," Eames's smile turned wicked, "there was the can-can dancer. Who had a _very_ naughty dream involving a number of peacocks."

"You had to bring it back to cocks, didn't you?"

Eames spread his hands and beamed. "I am what I am."

"You've seen so much, though. I can't even imagine all the things you must have seen."

"Well, much of dreams is nonsense, of course." Eames shrugged. "They don't all have stories and settings. A lot of nonsense and terrible things and wonderful things and more nonsense."

"Sort of like life."

"Mm," Eames nodded gravely. "But with more public nudity and all of your teeth falling out."

Arthur laughed.

"Oh! I've just come up with a brilliant plan."

"Let me guess. Does it involve public nudity?"

"It does! We are, after all, making me very happy, right?"

The corners of Arthur's mouth were starting to hurt from smiling. "We're trying."

"So here is the plan." Eames paused for, apparently, dramatic effect, waiting until Arthur gave him an expectant look to go on. "We go out into this Paris you've made." He gestured expansively just as, behind him, light rippled up the Eiffel Tower, gold against the indigo pre-night sky. "Naked, of course, as I understand that's how Paris is best seen—no, don't argue. I feel strongly on this point. And I shall nick us another lovely warm baguette, which shall be engaged primarily for the purpose of making lewd gestures at you. And then we shall run home, likely having either shocked or otherwise over-stimulated the local denizens with our nudity and thievery. And then, if you're very nice to me and say complimentary things about my poor scribblings, then I shall take you back into this big, soft bed, where," Eames dropped his voice, hooked an eyebrow salaciously, " _je vais te faire l'amour toute la nuit_."

Arthur laughed, because Eames was ridiculous and charming and beautiful, and Arthur was just so _happy_. And then he stopped laughing. And it felt as though everything around him shifted suddenly into sharper, brighter focus. Like he could see through the hazy deepening blue of the sky to all the stars, like he could hear every leaf on every tree whispering in the late summer breeze, and their message was so _clear_. This was what he wanted his life to be. Absurd and sexy and sometimes terrifying, overwhelming and intimate and ridiculous. And he was so, so _lucky_ , because he would never have known what that even _felt_ like if it weren't for—

"Touch me," Arthur whispered.

"Oh," Eames's eyebrows twitched up, and he moved a hand toward the button of his trousers. "Well, I suppose we _could_ skip straight to the end of the plan—"

"No." Arthur sat up onto his knees, sheet bunched around his waist, and reached out his hand. "Like this. Touch me."

"Darling," Eames's brows knit together quizzically. "You know how much I wish I could."

Arthur swallowed. Breathed in, out, steady. Calm. "You can."

"The magic—"

"This is my dream. _Mine_." And before a moment ago, Arthur would have been surprised by how strong his voice was. How sure. But not now. "The sorcerer made his rules, but you're in _my_ dream now." Arthur extended his hand a little farther. "Touch me."

"Arthur." Eames had gone very still. His voice was barely a breath.

"My dream." Arthur held out his other hand. "My rules. And I say you _can_."

Eames shifted on the bed, closer, then closer again. His eyes, huge and dark, locked on Arthur's.

"Touch me."

Slowly, Eames raised one trembling hand.

"Touch me," whispered Arthur.

Eames stretched forward.

And their fingertips met.

Eames made a desperate, strangled sound and _surged_ forward, grabbing for Arthur's hands.

Arthur gasped, grabbed back. Their fingers tangled, they pawed, clumsy in their haste, at each other's hands, wrists, arms, until they were braced, locked together, Arthur's hands curled underneath Eames's elbows and Eames's hands gripping Arthur's forearms. They looked up at one another.

And laughed, together, _touching_. Pure joy, relief, and tears and _Eames_. He was so _solid_ and he was so _warm_ and _Eames._

Arthur stroked his thumb against Eames's skin, and Eames blew out a shaky breath and mirrored the gesture, dragging his thumb lightly over the soft skin on the inside of Arthur's arm.

They laughed again.

Eames curled his fingers, brushing his fingertips down, underneath Arthur's elbow.

Arthur ran his hand up Eames's arm, felt Eames tremble under his hand, and smiled. Eames was still wearing his earring, a little pearl droplet that trembled from his ear, and Arthur reached up to touch it.

Eames flinched.

Arthur blinked. "Sorry, I—?"

Eames sucked in a sharp, shocked breath.

"Eames?" Ice chased down Arthur's spine. He could see the white around Eames's eyes. "Did I hurt you?"

" _No._ " Eames's face had gone deathly pale. "Oh, no, no, no—" His moans choked off, and he _shuddered_.

"Eames?" Arthur cried, gripping Eames's arms. All the air rushed from his lungs. If he'd _hurt_ Eames—

"It's him," Eames gasped.

"Who?"

Eames's voice sounded like it was being dragged over gravel, like he could barely get the words out. "The…first one," he panted. "Who woke me." His fingers dug into Arthur's flesh, but—his hands were sliding. Down, down, his nails leaving white lines on Arthur's skin. "He's back."

Arthur tightened his grip, as hard as he could. "Woke you? The—Nash? You mean _Nash_?"

"He's dreaming!" Eames gasped, like it was his last, raw breath. He clawed at Arthur's arms, wild-eyed, but his hands just slid, dragged inexorably down Arthur's forearms, dragged, _torn_ away and Arthur clawed back, grabbed for Eames's shirt, hand, anything, but he couldn't hang on, he _couldn't_ —

" _ARTHUR!_ "

—and then Eames was gone.

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, BakerStMel, for putting up with my nonsense. <3


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a night that seems more like a year, Arthur faces the dawn of a day without Eames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um...hi!! SURPRISE! We're back! And if _you're_ back after that tiny bit of a hiatus, thank you for coming back!  <3 <3 <3 Like WAY less than three!

They came in the morning, rumbling into camp in a cloud of dust: a line of black SUVs bearing the words COBOL ENTERTAINMENT under stylized blue roller coaster logos.

Unmoving, Arthur watched them come. His eyes were still burning. His throat was dry and raw.

When the dust settled and the doors of the lead vehicle opened, Nash climbed out, small and pale in wrinkled white linen by comparison with the two black-clad, burly, and obviously armed guards who followed. He pulled off his mirrored sunglasses, staring in clear dismay over Arthur's shoulder, past his team behind him, at the devastated cliff face.

"Shit, Arthur," Nash breathed, dragging the back of his hand over his open mouth, just like he had—after—that night at the hotel in Mombasa. "What have you done?"

Arthur might actually have laughed. If he did, he couldn't hear it over the sudden ringing in his ears or the sharp cry of his name as he launched himself forward.

" _LET HIM_ —"

He didn't get to the word "go" before a blur of black took out his legs and his face slammed into the ground. He sucked in a mouthful of sand, choked on it, gasping, his arm wrenched behind him.

"No! Put those—stop!" Someone was shouting, the voice high-pitched and urgent. Shouting, boots tramping. "Stand down!"

Arthur coughed and spat sand as a knee dug into his back, pinning him down. Closed his eyes and let the tears of helpless rage mix with the sweat and dirt caked on his face.

 

***

 

The tremors had been terrible.

In the pre-dawn darkness, the cliff face around the Penis had crumbled.

Enormous slabs of stone broke away from the cliff face, slammed to ground in great clouds of dust. The crack running alongside the Penis had doubled in height and forked, scoring the stone like a bolt of black lightning. Another crack split the opposite side, extending almost horizontally from the testicles. The Penis itself had taken heavy damage, the exposed surface of the shaft chipped and gouged and scored white from the impact of falling debris.

And none of Arthur's shouting or pleading or despair had stopped it.

 

***

 

"Forty-eight hours," Arthur repeated dully.

Ariadne was pale under the dirt streaked across her cheeks. "That's what it says."

"He can't actually _do_ this, can he?" Yusuf's forehead wrinkled in dismay.

"Shhh," Ariadne warned. Her eyes flashed toward the door of whatever tent they'd ended up in, where the dark shape of a guard with a rifle was silhouetted outside the canvas.

Yusuf dropped his voice and pointed at the document half-crumpled in Ariadne's hand. "I mean, he has some piece of paper, but—"

"He has men with guns," Ariadne muttered. "What sort of 'entertainment' company has men with guns? Arthur…" She glanced warily over her shoulder once more before the three of them bowed their heads together, continuing in near-whispers. "What _was_ that back there? You knew he was coming?"

"No. I only knew—" Arthur pressed the cold cloth Yusuf had given him to his head and swallowed down a rising feeling of nausea. "He has Eames."

"What do you mean 'has' him?"

"I knew Nash was back in Mombasa. Because…the cliff." Arthur heaved a breath, trying to pull his thoughts into order. "I…hadn't realized. How it worked. But…Nash was the first one to touch the head of the Penis. Not…not me. It bonded them, but I made Nash leave before he could dream. And so…I was the second. To touch. So Eames found me. But when Nash came back…into range…he dreamed and…he _took_ him."

" _Fuck_ ," said Yusuf.

"That's what happened to the cliff." Arthur looked down at his hands, white-knuckled around the twisted cloth. "Eames didn't want to go."

"Oh, Arthur," Ariadne breathed.

"I tried to hold on. I tried—" Arthur cut himself off, pressing his lips together tightly. It was several moments with Ariadne's arm around his shoulders before he could speak again. "I just want to know if he's still...after…everything. I just want to know if he's okay."

"Does that mean Nash knows what Eames really is? What the Penis really is?"

Arthur shrugged jerkily. "I don't know. I don't see how he could have. He could only have come back for the site itself."

"He sold us out, is what he did," Ariadne gritted out. "You hurt his feelings, so he sold us out."

"This is insane. You don't think _Nash_ would actually have us _shot_?"

"I think these Cobol people would," Ariadne said darkly. "Whoever they are and whatever they want, they mean business."

"So what do we do?" Yusuf asked.

"I don't know." Arthur squeezed his eyes shut. His head was pounding. "I need to dream. I need to _try_."

"The compound. There are still two, maybe three vials?"

"What about something to keep Nash from dreaming? If Eames is still—the Penis can't take another night like that."

"I don't know, I…" Yusuf pushed a hand into his hair, crushing his curls into clumps. "They're watching the lab. I could try…"

"Or we could, you know, just…make a ruckus?" Ariadne said. "At night when he's trying to sleep?"

"Whatever we do, we need to be careful." Arthur touched his fingertips gingerly to the grazed skin on his forehead. Visions of Ariadne and Yusuf being roughed up by Cobol's guards twitched at the back of his aching head. He looked up. "No. _I_ need to be careful. _You_ do what they tell you. You don't get hurt. We have a day and a half to pack up? Pack up. Make sure our--" Another glance toward the door confirmed the guard still didn't seem to be taking any interest in their whispers. In fact, he was starting a conversation with another passing guard. "Our _Eames_ data is secured."

Yusuf nodded with determination. "Keep it secret, keep it safe."

"But Arthur," Ariadne touched his arm, raised her eyebrows. "It's not 'you'. It's still 'we'. You got me?"

Arthur swallowed hard. "I—"

" _You_." The tent door banged open. The guard pointed at Arthur. "Come with me."

 

***

 

"You're entitled to have a legal representative review the documentation, but I assure you it is sound and the order is real and enforceable." Nash's hands twitched as he pushed a thick packet of papers across the table he'd set up in his makeshift office tent. He spoke like he'd been rehearsing the words, but there was a slight tremor in his voice. Excitement. Nervousness? "Cobol Entertainment Industries are hereby officially taking ownership of this site, the surrounding property, and any and all artifacts or naturally-occurring structures within. You and your team have forty-eight hours—from the time of our arrival this morning—to pack up your gear and vacate the site."

"Yes. I'd already gotten the gist of the takeover plan." Arthur spared a glance at the documents but made no move to take them.

"I hope there won't be any further _incidents_."

Arthur flicked a pointed look at the two armed guards at the door. "I hope so, too."

"You'll cooperate, then." Nash's gaze twitched over the scraped spot on Arthur's forehead, his souvenir from the morning's encounter with Cobol's guards.

"I don't have much of a choice, do I?"

"No, you don't." Nash jerked his chin up. "I'm in charge now."

That, Arthur suspected, was the main point of this meeting—Arthur's downfall. At least for Nash. For Arthur, now that he was here, it was information-gathering.

_You hurt his feelings, so._

Ariadne hadn't meant it as an accusation—Arthur realized that. But the chain of causality was there. If Nash hadn't been trying to prove something to Arthur. If Arthur had handled it better. If Arthur hadn't been a pathetic idiot who just wanted to get his dick sucked. None of this would be happening. He should have been smarter. He should have been stronger.

(He should have held on tighter.)

Arthur was never much of an actor, but he could channel that wash of shame. "So what exactly do you think you're in charge _of_? You've seen the site." He forced out an awkward, bitter laugh. "Things are out of control. It's a disaster. "

"Maybe not." Nash leaned back, smug.

"You know something?"

Nash smirked. "I know a lot of things."

"What could you know that I don't?"

"Ha!" Nash's eyes flashed and he started ticking off on his fingers. "First and foremost, I know that Cobol has the resources and the expertise to manage a site like this. Resources and expertise that you obviously don't have. Second, I know that _my_ team of engineers already feels confident the infrastructure of the Penis can be sufficiently reinforced to prevent further damage."

"But how quickly? What if there are more tremors?"

"They haven't had time for a full assessment yet, of course, but they've assured me the Penis is not nearly as damaged as the cliff face."

Arthur's fists clenched with the effort to control his surge of relief. One piece of good news. Something to hang on to. He could only hope Cobol's engineers actually _did_ know what they were talking about. The idea of them out there chipping away at the cliff, tramping through the cave, touching the Penis, made his stomach turn.

"The cliff face itself will have to be off limits, of course, and the Penis itself will be cordoned off for viewing. Any cosmetic repairs can be implemented before the park opens."

Arthur blinked. "Park? What…park?"

Nash gave him an odd look, then burst out laughing. "You mean you haven't even figured that out? Arthur—" Nash paused dramatically. Relishing. The prick. "Cobol Entertainment builds theme parks."

"Theme parks."

"We'll have a plaza at the base of the cliff, and—"

"You want…to turn the Penis…into a _theme park_."

"And why not?" Nash snapped. Probably in his script Arthur's response was a lot less flat, but it was all he could do not to fling himself across Nash's desk right now, fists-first. "There's precedent for the tourism angle. Haesindang. The Kanamara Matsuri. But of course, the biggest selling point will be the dreams."

The rage boiling up inside Arthur's chest was quenched by ice. "Dreams."

"Beach access, luxury lodging, and erotic dreams. The perfect vacation package." Nash's lip curled up. "After all…it's hardly much of an archaeological site anymore…is it?"

Right. Nash didn't know about the dreams. Arthur's heart hammered. So Nash didn't know about Eames. But what happened when Cobol found out the mass dreams they were banking on had stopped?

What happened _tomorrow morning_?

It wasn't even forty-eight hours now.

"But maybe we'll let you have a free ticket to the park when it opens. For all your efforts," Nash continued taunting, looking inordinately pleased with himself.

But all Arthur could think was _now what? Now what?_ He hated not knowing. He hated not having a _plan_. The ground had dropped away from under his feet and he was falling in darkness, trying to draw out a flowchart in the air rushing by as he fell. If Eames wasn't okay, then end. If tremors destroyed the Penis, then end. If Cobol destroyed the Penis, then end. If Eames was okay, if the Penis held strong, if Cobol didn't raze the ground, then—

He looked up at Nash.

"You're right," Arthur said.

"I—what?"

"The truth is…" Arthur sighed heavily. "Well, the truth is I'm a little relieved."

" _Relieved_?" Nash snorted. "That's not the impression I got this morning."

"I…regret what happened this morning. I acted…hastily."

"You mean violently."

"What can I say? It was a long night. Your arrival was surprising. And you've always made me feel…" Arthur looked away, lowered his eyes, "strongly. But my first priority has always been the Penis. And this…it's a good solution. I don't want to, but I have to admit that." Arthur looked Nash over slowly as he raised his gaze, like he was really just noticing him for the first time. "I can't say I like your methods, but, Nash, I am impressed."

Nash flushed.

Arthur felt sick, but he pressed the advantage. When they came to Mombasa, Arthur had wanted it all so badly—the discovery, the accomplishment, the _Journal of Archaeological Science_ , Dominick Cobb's recognition. Were Nash's motives really so different? He'd wanted Arthur's notice. And Arthur needed all the options he could get. "Maybe I could even…help?" Arthur pushed his hands into his pockets, sheepish. Was it too much? Too obvious? What was he even doing? "Assist your engineers or your transition team."

"You know…" Nash stared at him. Frowned. "I never know what to expect from you, Arthur."

"Neither do I, some days."

Nash motioned to one of the guards. "Take him back to his tent," he ordered. It wasn't an answer, but his hooded, thoughtful gaze followed Arthur as they left.

A syringe was waiting for Arthur when he got back to his tent.

 

***

 

He was cold and he couldn't see through the fog. He tried to pole his raft through the flooded streets of Paris, but he couldn't find the bottom of the murky water, nothing to push against. He was drifting. Just drifting. And there was something he'd lost. He didn't know what, just that something was _wrong_. In the high windows of the townhouses lining the avenue, gold light glowed and couples twirled, dancing, heads thrown back. Music and voices he couldn't make out, and wild, careless laughter.

Then his raft was on the sea and all he could do was hang on to the rope binding the slippering logs together as the wind whipped the waves higher and higher. The water was dark, almost black, but clear. Yellow pencils speared through the water like shoals of darting fish, and torn paper floated like seaweed.

The horizon was lost to fog and rain, and there was something Arthur had lost, too. Sea and sky were an endless lifetime of grey.

But for a single light. A distant wink of gold.

He opened his mouth to call for help, but a wave slapped his face, filled his mouth and nose with salt and he choked and coughed and the sea laughed and swept him under.

When he broke the surface, gasping for air, he knew:

"EAMES!"

He was on the shore, skin prickling under a bright blue sky. There was a tent and a ring of shells and stones around a driftwood fire gone cold. Black ashes. A pair of orange flip-flops in the sand and a paperback with a picture on the cover of a castle. He picked up the book, but he couldn't read the words. The pages smelled like apples.

"Eames!"

The wind stirred the tall grass on the dunes, and in between a shadow moved.

Arthur dropped to a crouch, gripping his blade. "Eames?"

Thunder growled behind him. The rain was coming again, driving across the sea, and the shadow ran.

Arthur ran after, following the flash of the sun on feathers, on fur.

" _Eames!_ "

A golden plume of a tail.

Arthur ran through the grass, laughing, following the dog's bounding head, floppy ears, and with each step the ground beneath his feet felt more solid. Arthur's shoes were red, and he had his lunch, and running was joy, and he was going to find _Eames_. This was a dream, but it was where he was supposed to be.

And then he saw it. The cliff. The Penis.

The stars were diamond dust, sharp and glittering. Everything was clear.

The swell of the Penis's head curved out of the earth, rubble from the tremors strewn all around it.

"I'm here," Arthur called. "Eames, I'm here. Where are you?"

There was no reply. No sound but the distant surf and the soft, curious trill of night creatures. There was nothing in Arthur's hands.

Arthur flung himself onto the rounded stone and ran his palms over the smooth surface.

"I'm here," he breathed. "Eames, I'm with you."

The thunder rumbled again, but softly, distant.

"Eames." Arthur pressed his cheek down, whispering into the stone. "I don't know if you can hear me. But I'm with you. Please don't be…don't be afraid, okay?" Arthur swallowed down his own fear, so it wouldn't show in his voice, and willed his pounding heart to quiet. "I just…I need you to stay calm. Stay calm and…" Arthur's fingertips curled. "If you have to go with…him, if you have to… _be_ with him, you do that. Okay? You do whatever you have to do to stay safe. I'm not leaving you. I won't leave you."

The breeze stirred, a gentle gust that ruffled Arthur's hair. Stroked the back of his neck.

It felt very much like the caress of warm fingers.

 

***

 

Arthur stood just outside the door of his tent, under close watch by his own personal Cobol guard, shivering in a blanket as the waning crescent moon waded slowly across the murky sky.

He tried not to think about Nash. What he might be dreaming.

The night passed calmly.

Maybe without the dreams, Cobol would just…go away. Was that too much to hope for?

 

***

 

Of course it was.

 

***

 

Nash burst into Arthur's tent red-faced and screaming.

"I KNEW YOU WERE JUST LAUGHING AT ME. I KNEW IT. YOU _CHEATING —_ "

Arthur shoved up from where he was lying on his cot, swung his feet to the floor. "Nash—"

A startled-looking guard followed Nash in, one hand hovering over an open holster.

"YOU _GREEDY_. _FUCKING_ —" Nash raged, spit flying from his mouth. "SMUG TRYING TO MAKE ME—"

"Nash, listen—" Arthur held up placating hands and the guard twitched. "The dreams—"

"That's right, _tell me about the dreams_ , you fucking prick," Nash hissed. And he held up a notebook.

Arthur's blood ran cold.

" _He was inside me. He was in my hands. He was in my mouth. I felt him everywhere. Like we had merged._ " Nash held Arthur's journal up in one hand, spitting out the words Arthur had written. Private words.

"No!" Arthur leapt up, reaching—

A meaty palm to the chest knocked him back down. He went sprawling across the end of his cot, knocked into his trunk, his watch, walkie-talkie, his vitamins, batteries, the pretty shells he'd found on the beach scattering across the floor of the tent.

"At first I thought it was just some fantasy of yours." Nash raised his voice again." _Inside me, trembling._ That word's underlined. _Trembling_."

" _Stop,_ " Arthur gasped.

_"_ Precious Arthur's personal porno, right? But I understand now," Nash sneered.

" _Like_ Eames _knew exactly how to move. Exactly the right spot inside me._ "

Arthur scrabbled to push himself up, and his fingers touched something cool. Cool and cylindrical.

And everything just…clicked.

Nash's voice receded into the background as the rush and roar of revelation filled Arthur's ears. Like a waterfall. The pre-ejaculate. The tremors, even. They weren't warnings. They were _clues_. _I think…I think the sorcerer liked me. Bit of sympathy, perhaps?_ The sorcerer had left Eames a way out.

_Exactly the right spot._

"Oh, my god," Arthur breathed.

He knew how to save Eames.

His fingers curled around the syringe.

"—THE DREAMS ALL FOR _YOURSELF_ —" Nash was shouting, waving Arthur's journal.

Arthur stumbled a little when he tried to stand, staggered forward unevenly. The guard reached out automatically, and Arthur jabbed him in the arm. The guard reached for his weapon, but his eyes were already rolling back in his head.

"—BASTARD CHEATING—" Nash froze, eyes wide. "What the—"

Arthur swung his fist. Hard.

Nash collapsed in a heap.

Arthur grabbed the walkie-talkie. His whole body crackled with adrenaline.

"Arthur?"

"Ariadne. Are you alone?"

"Yeah…?"

"I'm going to need a diversion. Now."

 

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still here? Yay! Thank you again!! <3
> 
> Updates for the remaining few chapters may not be regular, but they should be _reasonable_.
> 
> p.s. <3


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur goes all out to protect the Penis.

The mess tent exploded.

As booted feet thundered past, toward the center of camp, toward the hiss of a chemical fire and a smell like burning butter, Arthur viciously blessed every single hair on Yusuf's devious head. He flattened himself against the outside of his tent, out of the line of sight of any passing Cobol guards.

Once most of the shouting seemed to have moved on, he risked a glance around the corner of his tent, waiting for the cry of alarm, the crack of a bullet as he was discovered unguarded and unsubtly furtive.

The trampled-down path between his tent and the next was clear.

This was it.

He clutched his flashlight to his thundering chest. His hand throbbed from the blow he'd delivered to Nash's face, like he was some sort of action hero. Who _was_ he? What did he think he was doing?

_Go_ , he told his shaking legs.

Arthur hadn't been allowed a video game system when he was a kid, but Hayley Olsauer used to let him come over sometimes after school and play on her X-box (much to his friend Garrett's endless amusement). Arthur would creep through city streets and warehouses and abandoned office buildings, one eye on his stealth meter, until Mrs. Olsauer poked her head through the open door and tapped her watch pointedly. The only danger he faced was not finishing his homework on time.

He didn't have a stealth meter now. There were no convenient shadows to slip into. He didn't have multi-vision goggles or optic cables or smoke grenades or save points.

If the bad guys saw him, he wouldn't get a do-over.

Arthur took a deep breath.

_Go_.

He ran on the balls of his feet across the sand and slipped behind another tent.

Blew out his breath.

Okay.

_Hurry, hurry, hurry_ , his heart pounded, but Arthur forced himself to be methodical, shaking with the effort of it. Tent to tent. Check both ways. Be quiet. Be careful. Again. Quiet, careful. Again. So many ways he could be spotted. A Cobol guard. A team member's innocent call. No do-overs.

Finally, _finally_ the open field between the edge of camp and the cliff gleamed bright under the clear sky, the Penis in sight, the bristly grass crunching under the first step of Arthur's boot—

"OVER HERE!"

Arthur threw himself to the ground.

Two guards jogged past. Close.The last two guards from the cliff, drawn from their posts by the explosion. Sunlight glinted off the black stocks of their rifles.

Probably the last two.

Arthur crawled, invisible, he was _invisible_ , from clump of grass to bush to patch of scrub, scraping his elbows in the dirt, until there was no more cover. Just a great expanse of dust and rock now between Arthur and the scored shaft of the Penis.

Nowhere ahead of him to hide.

Somewhere behind him, amidst the clamor from camp, an engine had awoken and begun to growl.

Arthur had run track in his sophomore year of high school. He’d been required to pick a sport, and they'd let anybody on the track team. He was skinny and uncoordinated, and he spent a lot of time watching the flashing heels of the kids in front of him. Sweaty, panting, his too-big feet slap-slap-slapping the clay-colored polyurethane. His dad had come to one meet. From the top of the sparse little crowd in the bleachers, his hands balled into fists, he'd bellowed, "Come _on_ , Arthur, just fucking _run_." Sunlight glinted off the black frames of his sunglasses.

Okay, Arthur.

Okay.

_Run_.

Arthur locked his eyes on the dark crack at the base of the Penis, the cave entrance, the finish line.

He pushed himself off.

The wind rushed past his ears like twin trains, his legs pumping like rail wheels.

The cave rocked in his vision with each pound of his heel.

He was halfway there when the first shot echoed through the indifferent blue sky.

Then there was another, and another.

A _thwick_ and a chunk of dirt burst up at Arthur's feet.

Sweat stung his eyes. Or tears.

_Come_ on _, Arthur._

_Run_.

A percussive burst, two _cracks_ , and shattered stone showered the arm Arthur flung up over his face as he hurled himself into the cave entrance, panting. He fled blindly into the darkness, careening off the rough stone walls and stumbling over debris. Not until he rounded the sharp curve he remembered from his first time in the cave did he allow himself to stop to catch his breath. He bent over, gulping air, his whole body trembling.

Somewhere in the cave, a spray of small stones skittered down a wall.

"I know," Arthur breathed. "I'm coming."

He switched the flashlight on as he stood. Dust floated in the beam it cast through the surrounding black. The narrowing passageway forced him to move slowly, pushing and squeezing his way through the tighter twists. The air grew heavier, more humid with each step until the warm stone grew slick against his palm.

Now, beyond the pounding in his ears, he heard it—the rush of water. The underground stream. Pre-ejaculate.

The cave walls changed, smoothed, when he slid into the rounded nook where the passage came to an end. He'd thought it was a dead end, the first time. Thought he was going to find Eames's burial chamber.

Arthur dropped his flashlight and laid both hands against the smooth, damp wall.

The cave shuddered.

It was so simple, really.

He pressed his body flat against the wall, stretched up, sliding his hands, standing on his toes to reach.

The stone _groaned_.

All he had to do stop the tremors was release the pressure.

Penis magic.

And maybe… _maybe_ …Eames would even be freed of his bond to Nash.

Arthur stretched up, up, reached…and there it was.

_Like Eames knew exactly the right spot inside me_.

"Coming…" Arthur ran his hands over the smooth, rounded bump in the wall of the tight, round passage and whispered, "Eames."

And pressed.

The wall heaved, and Arthur's body was slammed into the tumult and surge as the underground river burst forth and the Penis roared to life.

 

***

 

They'd bring the groceries inside when they got there—cold beer and steaks for grilling and fresh berries for dessert—but the rest of the stuff could wait in the car until they'd pulled the flowered summer quilt out of the closet and thrown it over the barnwood bed and fucked on it. They'd run down the shady path to the lake, barefoot and wincing as they danced over pebbles and pine needles and roots, and jump into the cool, clear water, splashing and laughing, toes squishing in the silt. Sunlight would glitter over the ripples around their bodies as they kissed, Arthur's legs wrapped around Eames's hips. They'd sit in the Adirondack chairs on the porch while the sun set and let the radio play inside, one of the three stations that all played country western music, and Eames would sing along under his breath without realizing he was doing it, out of tune, his fingertips idly tickling Arthur's. After dinner, they'd carry the flowered summer quilt outside, arrange it on a bed of soft pine needles, and lie on their backs looking up at the stars until Eames said he'd thought of something else that would be heavenly. His eyes would twinkle. So Arthur would take him into his mouth and when they were finished, heavy-limbed and heavy-lidded, and the fingers Eames was running through Arthur's hair were slowing, Arthur would nudge him awake—there, under the impossible sky, his heart full of moonlight—just to say, "Eames, I—"

 

***

 

Water trickled down Arthur's temple and into the corner of his eye.

His fingers twitched in the dirt.

 

***

 

"— _so much_."

 

***

 

"EAMES!"

Arthur shot up off the ground, and saw.

Thick dust churning slowly over drifts of rubble. At the base of the cliff, where the Penis had once stood. And now there was... _nothing_.

His cry reverberated eerily through the heavy, rust-colored clouds. Great, dark slabs of stone hunkered in the surrounding haze, silent in reply.

_No._

In the hot breeze, his sodden pants legs flapped against his shins.

_Just…gone._

Grit stung his eyes.

_No._

He took an unsteady step.

It couldn't have been all for _nothing_.

On his next step, he fell to his knees.

"No," he whispered.

_It couldn't. It couldn't, it couldn't, it—_

From the haze, a weak, ragged-scraped voice whispered back, " _Arthur_?"

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you BakerStMel, as always! <3


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